Rhapsody in Blue
by Swiss Army Knife
Summary: Stories exploring the character and relationships of Lance McClain, Blue Paladin of Voltron. Chapter Summary: Hunk is uncomfortable because his t-shirt keeps riding up on his tummy, but then he meets Lance and they become Seaside Beach Friends.
1. Shave and a Haircut, Two Bits

Author's Note: It seems I can never enter a new fandom without composing a dozen or so stand-alone pieces, usually focused on a particular character. Basically, I enjoy the freedom of having an unstructured place for the pieces that don't fit in more plot-heavy stories. So here's my playground for Voltron: Legendary Defender and the character of Lance McClain. By the way, a rhapsody is a piece of music with an irregular form, full of improvisation, which is known for heights of emotion that swing suddenly from exuberant to somber and back again. Sounds a lot like our boy, don't you think?

 **Rhapsody in Blue**

* * *

 **Shave and a Haircut, Two Bits  
** Chapter Summary: Keith's shaggy haircut begins to interfere in combat situations, so Lance takes matters into his own hands. You know, because he's nice like that.

* * *

His blade hissed through the air, missing the gladiator's faceplate by a millimeter, just as it had the last three times. Frustration seeped into Keith, who blew determinedly upward, sending sticky strands of hair fluttering out of his eyes…only to have them fall back down immediately, cutting through his vision at exactly the wrong time. "Argh!" he shouted, forced to roll as his attacker's weapon brushed by his ribs. Without his armor, he could actually feel it snag against his shirt, and he flinched, trying to rebalance so he could go on the offensive again.

Before he could, however, a singing high note cut through the air, followed by electrical feedback as the gladiator collapsed into a pile. Lance stepped closer, his bayard still smoking. "Keith, dude, this has gone on long enough."

Annoyed by the interruption, Keith whirled. "Why'd you shoot?" – and apparently cancel their training session, since no opponents were oncoming. "You didn't have to stop the sequence. I was fine."

"Sure you were," Lance said, a touch of sarcasm threading through his words. "Because it's normal for the guy who hurls his magic space sword halfway across the room and _still_ hits his opponent in the face to get sloppily eviscerated by a gladiator. But it's cool. Nothing to see here. Everything's fine."

The words stung. Keith knew he'd been making mistakes all morning, but it still sucked to have it rubbed in by Lance, whose accuracy had improved by leaps and bounds since he'd taken on the Red Lion. Feeling sullen, Keith admitted, "It's not my fault. I keep losing sight of them."

Lance's bayard deactivated. "Well, no wonder. We've been out here for close to a year, Keith. Have you trimmed that mane of yours, even once?"

Always with his hair. Keith's fists bunched. "I _like_ my hairstyle."

"Uh, excuse me. Did I say anything about your emo 80's hairstyle? No, I did not. I just asked if you cut it. It's hanging in your eyes."

It was doing exactly that, and had been for a while. The fact that he was sweating helped, because it was easier to manage when it clumped. In battle, though, he moved so fast that it often came loose. He looked at Lance, standing there with his neatly trimmed hair, which was curling slightly over and around his ears. Despite the fact that he was also perspiring, it looked just as coiffed as it had on that first day on Earth. Which, now that he was thinking about it, was kind of weird.

Seriously, Keith asked, "Lance, did you find a space barber?"

There was a slight widening of Lance's eyes before he answered. "No, Keith, I did not find a space barber. I trim it myself, like any self-respecting guy with short hair."

"Oh." Well, that did make sense, he guessed. Keith thought about Shiro, who'd sported almost the exact same cut for as long as Keith had known him. "Do you think Shiro does that?"

"If you'd asked me before, I'd have said absolutely," Lance said. "However, I think he's losing his touch. Still, as concerning as Shiro's puffball is, he's not the one I'm worried about at the moment." He took Keith's arm. "Come on."

It was the remark about being worried that kept Keith from dragging his feet as Lance drew him through the castle corridors. Brow scrunched, he allowed himself to be led directly into Lance's room, where he was nudged toward the bed.

"Take a seat," Lance said. "I've got to get a few things if I'm going to cut your hair."

His hands came up. "Whoa," Keith said. "You didn't say you were going to cut _my_ hair."

"Don't worry." Lance was digging around, coming up with scissors, a comb. "I cut everybody's hair. Well, just Pidge and Hunk's now that the garrison's about a kajillion miles away. I had to sit on Pidge the first time, though, and it took me an hour just to brush out all the snarls. Speaking of which," he said, scrunching his nose at Keith's limp, sweaty hair. "I think you need to hit the showers first."

Keith raised his eyebrows. "What does that matter?"

"Because it's a lot easier to do a good job if it's wet, especially since your hair's so long. Plus," Lance said, poking his arm. "You stink, even for someone who's been training. When was the last time you had a bath?"

When had it been? His uncertainty must have shown on his face, because Lance rolled his eyes.

"That's what I thought. I swear, I'm going to talk to Allura. If we can have all-day training sessions on Altean combat strategies, then we can definitely take an hour for hygiene. I can't tell if Pidge is a natural slob or just can't be bothered, but you – your education has clearly been lacking in this department."

The idea of having to sit through a hygiene seminar with Lance sounded terrible, and Keith backed down quickly. He raised his hands, shifting toward the door. "Okay, okay. I'll take a shower. Back in five."

"Make it fifteen," Lance said, "so you have time to actually wash the crevices. And don't forget your pits!"

Ugh. No one else in Keith's life ever talked to him about people's crevices. Sometimes Lance was really too much. Nonetheless he took extra care in the shower, wondering just how much soap one was expected to use. His hair was no more cooperative once it was wet, slopping around and dripping suds in his eyes and tangling unmercifully. He returned to Lance's room _fourteen_ minutes later, dripping all down his neck and in his ears, and honestly so fed up that he almost wanted Lance to shave his head and be done with it.

Lance himself had gotten cleaned up, and now he stood there in that Altean shirt he liked so much, messing around with Pidge's phone. "If she finds out you took that again, she's going to freak," Keith warned, taking a seat on the bed.

"Yeah, well," Lance said, setting down the device and coming over. "I like to live dangerously."

It was kind of awkward, sitting there and letting Lance, of all people, run his fingers through his hair. Keith kept waiting for a sharp tug, or a joke, but Lance seemed focused on his task, merely tutting as he examined Keith's scalp.

"What kind of shampoo do you use?"

"That bar stuff, the one in the shower stalls," Keith answered.

"You use the _bar soap_ on your head?" Lance sounded horrified.

It made Keith bristle. "What about it?"

"It's just harsh on your skin. No wonder you've got dandruff. Don't you find it itches?"

His scalp did feel irritated sometimes, but it had always been like that. He'd never connected it to his use of soap – or lack thereof. He gave a scratch, feeling the slight scaly texture. "It's not bad."

Heaving a sigh, Lance said, "Never mind. I'll give you some of mine and make extra next time." He gave Keith a condescending pat, which was only a bit maddening. "Don't worry your fluffy head about it."

Keith wanted to say that he had never once, in eighteen years of life, worried about his "fluffy" head, but he doubted that would get him anywhere, so he kept quiet.

Lance, meanwhile, had taken up the scissors. "Might as well get this show on the road. Sit still, alright? Wouldn't want to make a mistake and accidently improve something!"

"You better not," Keith warned.

To his surprise, Lance paused. "Cross my heart and hope to die, Keith. Your mullet is safe with me."

For a time after that, there was only the metallic sound of the scissors whispering through Keith's hair, occasionally guided by the comb. Lance's movements were crisp and sure, like someone who had done this many times before. He didn't talk while he worked, which Keith found unnerving, considering how much Lance babbled the rest of the time. Eventually, he broke the silence himself.

"You really cut Pidge and Hunk's hair?"

Lance eyed him, momentarily distracted. He made a firm cut before answering. "Nothing fancy. Just keeping everyone from going full werewolf, like you." He lifted a bit of Keith's fringe. "Ugh. Split ends like this are a crime against humanity. My neice's Barbie dolls had less fraying. At least your hair is a nice texture, though."

Keith shifted. "My dad told me that once. 'At least you didn't end up with my hair, coarse as a coyote,' he said. Whatever that means."

The fingers running experimentally over his scalp stilled, and Lance said, "You don't talk about your family much."

Of course, he didn't. Keith barely knew anything about his family on Earth, and as for his other potential parent… Keith looked at his palms, which were a perfectly normal human beigey color. Well, that was an entire galaxy of unknowns. His father, though, was clear in his memory, only a bit hazy as he put more years between himself and his childhood. He didn't often take the time to examine the softer, quieter moments, like his dad's comment about his hair, though. He didn't want the pain that came with it, but in this moment, it didn't seem so bad.

"He was a big man, my dad. Like Shiro. When I was a kid, he used to let me ride on his shoulders, and it felt like I was flying."

Lance cleared his throat. "My brother used to let me do that, too. He's a giant, bigger than Hunk, and he teases me for being so skinny."

A thin sliver of humor, like the edge of a knife, worked its way under Keith's skin. He enjoyed teasing Lance, whose reactions were always entertaining. "You _are_ a lightweight."

"Lightweight?" Lance demanded. "You're, like, the tiniest GI Joe in the pack, the one with the gimpy leg."

Keith flexed, feeling the confident, ready contraction of his muscles. It was a good feeling, knowing that he could launch himself into combat at any time, sure that his body would respond exactly how he wanted it to. Size wasn't really a factor. "Appearances can be deceiving. Besides, I'm dense underneath."

Lance narrowed his eyes. "You mean you're heavy underneath. I thought I'd never drag you out of that communication hub last week."

There'd been an explosion while Keith was standing too near a consol. He'd woken up flat on his back, bumping along the corridor while Lance cursed up a storm overhead. Even after he regained consciousness, he…might have needed a little assistance making it back to his Lion. Thinking about that day, and now sitting here on Lance's bed, a realization occurred. "We've gotten better," he said.

Taken off guard by the transition, Lance froze. After a moment, though, his expression softened. "Yeah, we have," he said, and the scissors snipped with a final flourish. "There. All done."

Keith scrapped his fingers through it, feeling a pleasing lightness as he did so. It was still longish in the back, but not so much it would snag in his suit, and his ears and forehead were cool, unaccustomed to their exposure to the castle's filtered air. He grinned. "Feels good."

"I do nice work," Lance said. "Come back again. That will be two hundred GAC."

Keith pushed off the bed, reveling in the way he could easily see all areas of the room without turning his head or blowing to get his bangs out of his eyes. The gladiator bots didn't know it, but they would soon be suffering a massive depopulation. Or better yet… "Wanna spar?"

Lance shook his head. "Oh, no. I do you a favor, and your way of repaying me is to give me a concussion?"

Keith leaned forward eagerly. "Yes?"

It would have taken someone a lot harder-hearted than Lance to resist the hopeful look Keith was casting in his direction. He watched Lance visibly weaken. "We just showered, though!" he whined, one final attempt to evade the inevitable.

It was time for the big push. "We could go swimming after."

Lance's shoulders fell with resignation, though he gave Keith a look of annoyance. "You're evil, you know that?"

Keith was too satisfied to argue. He even went so far as to punch Lance in the arm, but lightly enough not to leave a bruise. Lance rubbed it anyway. "I'm going to teach you to use a gladius," Keith said. "You ought to know about more blades than scissors."

Lance groaned.

* * *

Author's Note: You know that scene in the space mall where Lance runs his hand through his hair? So my brain's commentary for that scene was, "He definitely trims his own bangs." You know, like he isn't a cartoon character with zero need for haircuts. Thus you have this short, with the boys bonding over how generally shaggy Keith is. Also because quiet, comfortable moments are one of the heights of friendship, and these two need more of them.


	2. A Boy and His Cow

**A Boy and His Cow  
** Chapter Summary: The title says it all. Basically just the age-old story of a boy and his cow.

* * *

Shuffling steps echoed through the memory chamber, crunching artificial grass underfoot. With feet that seemed too heavy to lift, Lance staggered inside the makeshift shed and collapsed face-first into a pile of bedding. There, he buried himself up to his elbows and groaned. "Today was the worst day."

He could hear the clop of Kaltenecker's hooves as she came up behind him and nudged his neck with moist nostrils. He half-giggled as she kept it up, rooting in his hair.

"Stop that." He turned onto his side and gave her face a shove. "Your drool isn't exactly a moisturizer, you know."

The cow gave him a bovine side-eye, but he knew she was glad to see him. This was further demonstrated as she went to the trouble of folding her legs, laying down so she could press against him. "Mau," she said, leaning all her weight into his side.

Lance couldn't hold back a smile any longer. What could he say? He'd always had a thing for the ladies, and Kaltenecker was a thousand-pound beauty. He was so glad they'd freed her from that awful mall. She deserved to be among her own kind, even if that meant a motley bunch of humans and not a herd of cattle. But no matter. They were both Earthlings, and that the important part, right?

Lance contented himself with rubbing her back and ribs with both hands, which made Kaltenecker shiver with pleasure. He felt her muscles jump under his skin and laughed. "Yeah, yeah, I'm happy to see you, too. Nobody on this ship understands me like you do."

Some might have thought that was an exaggeration, but Kaltenecker was a very profound, deep-thinking cow. Lance was also her only regular visitor. Pidge had no interest in animals (unless they had robot arms or some kind of inner circuitry), and the fact that Kaltenecker had no combat value placed her beneath Keith's notice. Shiro, Lance suspected, was a tiny bit scared of her, which, okay. If you weren't familiar with them, livestock could be huge, intimidating animals. As for Hunk, he had mostly lost interest that very first day on the bridge, shortly after he realized she wouldn't be supplementing their panty with milk, at least not for long.

"What do you mean she won't give milk? She's a girl cow. That's what cows do!"

At the time, Lance had patted their newly-acquired friend with a practiced hand. "Cows give milk for calves, buddy, and Kaltenecker isn't pregnant. Isn't likely to become pregnant either, unless you're hiding a bull somewhere in this castle. It looks like she might still give milk, but once she's done, she's done."

"Fascinating," Allura had said. "I was unaware Earth had such a variety of creatures." She seemed about three seconds away from trying to shake Kaltenecker's hand…er, hoof, and Lance wasn't entirely sure she realized that a cow was on a different level of sentience than humans.

Meanwhile, Lance was working his fingers deep into the recess behind Kaltenecker's left ear. "Come on, Shiro, even if she can't give milk, she's still a wayfarer like us. The least we can do is take care of her until we can all go home."

All the others had exchanged some kind of look then, something that made Lance's stomach sink, so he actively avoided trying to interpret it. Instead, he offered a weak smile. Shiro relented, though a kind of sadness tinged his words. "Alright, Lance. You can keep the cow."

Since then, they'd done their best to make her comfortable. They'd fabricated a habitat in one of the memory chambers. The food goo could be modified for her, and though she seemed to find it just as gross as Lance did, Kaltenecker'd apparently been in space long enough to become a pragmatist because she ate it. What she seemed to love most, though, were Lance's daily visits. The back rubs, ear scratches, cuddles. Yeah. Kaltenecker loved hugs. Good thing for her, Lance was an expert.

He pressed his face into her hide, arms stretched as far as they would go. "Oh, I'm so tired. Allura is a slave driver, Kal."

Kaltenecker made an understanding noise. Encouraged, he went on. "Today she was mad because I was piloting Blue, and we got a little bit carried away with some asteroids. They were icy and smooth as glass, perfect for skidding around on. So I wasn't exactly on task. Me and Blue hadn't had a chance to fly together in ages, plus it was harmless, right? 'Course, Keith messed it up. That guy has no chill. Everyone else was sliding around and throwing up snow with their claws, and here comes Mr. Fire Breath, incinerating everything like it was some kind of deranged war game. I swear, he's the kind of kid who hides rocks in snowballs."

Lance paused.

"Not that there was a lot of snow back in Varadero. There was this tiny flurry once when I was seven. I stood outside, gawping like an idiot. Mom said she would never forget it. 'Your face was so rosy, like a little snow angel,' she would tell me." He realized his throat had gotten thick and rubbed his wrist over his nose. "Ugh. Sorry."

Kaltenecker blinked huge eyes at him. They looked so sympathetic, like she understood every word he said.

He smiled at her. "You're a good listener, Kal. Even when I get sappy, you don't make fun of me. It's because you miss home, too, right?"

The animal offered a low, mournful sound.

Lance leaned his head against her back. "Yeah, I know. But one day we'll be home, and there'll be grass for you and maybe snow for me. And my mom." He laughed outright when an impossibly long, sticky tongue licked his face. "Gross! I already told you, Kal, that is not good for my skin."

Despite his protests, he nestled down into the synthetic hay, flush with the broad, warm body. A little nap before he had to return to the others would be good for him. After all, defenders of the Universe deserved a little rest now and then. Kaltenecker lay her head over his shoulder, closing him in with her boney head. She sighed, content.

Lance was already asleep.


	3. As Iron Sharpens Iron

**As Iron Sharpens Iron  
** Chapter Summary: Keith decides it's high time Lance learned how to use something other than a ranged weapon. Lance kind of agrees, but that doesn't mean he isn't going to whine about it.

* * *

"You can't rely on ranged weaponry," Keith insisted the day he shoved a very different kind of weapon into Lance's hesitating grip. "It's limiting, and we're locked in close quarters too often."

He had a point, which is why Lance made only a token protest before submitting to Keith's tutelage. That said, it took a while to find a bladed weapon he felt comfortable handling. The heavy sabers and claymores were unwieldy in his hands, and as for a dagger…

"It bugs me," he admitted after an especially unnerving round with a gladiator, whose body lay sprawled on the training room floor. If he looked closely and squinted his eyes, he could see the gaping spot in the torso where his weapon had reached its vital parts, and he could still feel the kiss of cool metal against his fingers from the moment when the hilt touched its metal body. Lance swallowed. "How close you have to get to, you know." He gestured weakly. "I don't know if I could do that with a person."

Keith didn't say anything right away, and Lance braced himself for an Iverson-esque remark about how he was weak, all shrinking heart and moist cheeks. But then, sometimes Lance forgot that Keith got expelled from the garrison. What he actually said was, "Have you ever tried fencing?"

Lance liked the small sword, which whipped and scoured with its blindingly fast point. It was about control and finesse rather than ruthless efficiency. Of course, because of its weight, it was a challenge to use against Keith's broadsword, but if Lance used his shield to parry, it wasn't so bad. Besides, none of them had gotten their bayard to turn into anything other than their default weapon anyway, though thanks to Keith's duel with Zarkon, they knew it was possible.

Eventually, Lance did manage to change the shape of his bayard. Into a sniper rifle, which was really cool. It happened five weeks before Keith formed a laser pistol, and two months before Hunk plowed through a pressurized bulkhead with a battering ram. Pidge eventually managed the most adorable little gauntlet-mounted catapult (which turned out to fling adorable balls of molten plasma). However, it was some time after all that before Lance was able to put Keith's lessons on close quarters combat into practice.

Pressed into a corner with Hunk hampered down at his back, a sentry lunged inside his effective range with deadly intent. His rifle transformed mid-swing, though not into the delicate small sword from training. When it was all over, the enemy demolished and the Lions safely back inside the castle hanger, his fellow paladins approached him. "Whoa," Pidge said appreciatively, not restraining herself from reaching out to touch.

Lance held it up in front of him, taking in the long, sleek-looking shaft. It was light in his hand, almost alive, with metallic sides and stripes and grips, while the rest glowed a vivid metallic blue. But it definitely wasn't a fencing weapon, or any kind of sword, for that matter.

"Quarterstaff," Keith supplied, ever the expert. His lips had a certain cut to them, almost like a smile. He looked satisfied. "Or a Japanese bō."

"Dude, it's awesome," Hunk said.

"Truly impressive," Allura added, and she sounded sincere. "Especially considering this is the third form your bayard has taken, and that, once again, you are first to have it do so."

Hunk slapped Lance on the back hard enough to leave him winded. "My buddy," he said. "Bayard master."

Lance hefted his new weapon, testing the balance outside of the heat of battle. It felt good, and his shoulders lifted. It felt like the weapon of a warrior. He flashed his friends a cheeky grin. "I'm starting to figure out why Keith's always haring off like a hero in an old story. It's got an aura about it, doesn't it?"

"You're an idiot," Pidge responded, but fondly. She seemed pretty impressed with his quarterstaff, too. Space staff. How cool was that?

"You didn't look half bad out there, considering how incompetent you are with anything that doesn't have a trigger," Keith complimented him in his snarky, Keith-like way.

Normally, Lance would've taken the opportunity to retaliate, but as he stood there holding a weapon that didn't feel foreign or unnerving but like something that was part of him, he couldn't find the heart. Instead he grinned directly into that cocky – _comrade, friend –_ bastard's face, and said, "My teacher wasn't half bad, at least when he wasn't brooding." The punch he received in return was one of Keith's softer ones, the kind he used to demonstrate comradery. Lance rubbed it anyway, just for show. "Hey. That's my sword arm."

"It's thanks to me you even have a sword arm."

"Turns out I didn't need one for this beauty!" As though by demonstration, Lance gave the staff an experimental swing, only to have it wobble in midair, the end coming dangerously close to giving Pidge head trauma. "Um, oops?"

Keith sighed. "We'll work on it."

Shiro took that moment to join them, striding across the empty space with an eager step. Lance held up the weapon for him to see as soon as he was close enough. "Shiro! What do you think?"

Shiro had a way of looking at a person that made them stand a little taller. "Well done," he said, and Lance felt his world expand – like his chest, which he couldn't help but puff out just a bit.

* * *

Author's Note: This story is pure speculation about what kind of weaponry the gang might later acquire. I'm hoping Lance ends up with something that takes advantage of his reach, but who knows? Next chapter I'm hoping to have an edgier piece ready wherein Lance gets hassled by a few of the younger Blades, but that piece has really been a struggle, so no ETA yet. Catch you later, and thank you for taking the time to leave a review!


	4. The Friend of My Friend - Part 1

**The Friend of My Friend Is My Enemy – Part One  
** Chapter Summary: Some members of the Blade of Marmora hassle Lance. It goes too far.

* * *

When Lance stepped out of the Red Lion, his jumpsuit was sticking to his back. Flying with Red was always like that – hot and exhausting and kind of insane – but it had been a win today, a very decided win, so Lance wasn't complaining.

The chorus of his friends' voices echoed through the comm, which was noisier than usual these days. Pidge was bantering with Matt, while Hunk just sounded relieved that they'd all made it back in one piece. "Is there time to throw together a few snacks before we debrief? Because I've got to tell you, I'm starving."

Shiro grunted as he disembarked. "You'll have to wait a bit longer, Hunk. I want everyone to head straight to the meeting. I'll join you in a moment, but first I need to speak to Lance."

Lance went taught with anticipation. What had he done this time? He took off his helmet when Shiro appeared in his part of the hanger, careful to ensure his connection to the others was switched off.

"Lance," Shiro said once they were face-to-face. Lance hated the way Shiro said his name at times like this. Other names could sound soft or hard, but somehow 'Lance' always came out in one abbreviated syllable, like a bark. "Why didn't you follow my orders when I told you to approach that flank formation?"

Lance _had_ obeyed orders. He'd swung around an outcropping of rocks and pinged them from a distance, one after another. It had taken a few shots to find their vulnerable places, but honestly he thought he'd been efficient. Had he taken too long? Afraid anything he said would sound like an excuse, Lance ventured, "Do you mean…because I was slow?"

Shiro looked confused. "No. I want to know why you didn't attack them."

"I did," Lance said, "with Red's tail blaster."

A mixture of emotions passed over Shiro's face: surprise, doubt, then finally understanding. "I see. That wasn't what I meant. We needed the Red Lion's presence on the battlefield, its swiftness and firepower, the intimidation factor of tearing their ships apart at close range. Your way may have achieved the same end, but it wasn't what I needed."

Lance understood what he was saying. Red's claws and jaw blade could cut through enemy ships like tissue paper, all at so blinding a speed that she left a white-hot afterimage in her wake. Lance liked it. The reckless haste, the violence. _Sometimes._ Like wielding a blunt instrument, however, it wasn't his first instinct. If he had to have a blade, he preferred a scalpel.

But what was the use of a scalpel when you needed a huge, flaming sword? Lance's shoulders fell. "I'm sorry, Shiro."

Shiro obviously wasn't happy with his remorse, didn't like being in a position to cause it. He stained for words to describe what was missing. "I don't need you to be sorry, Lance. It was a misunderstanding. I just need you to be –" He struggled to find words. "More _aggressive_ ," he finally decided.

Silence swallowed up the corners of the hanger until only the underlying hum of machinery remained. Between the lines, the truth hovered. Lance let it soak in. When the lion switch first happened, he'd been proud that not one, but two lions had accepted him. Red was incredible, fierce and almost too much for him to handle. With Keith as their leader, though, it had felt right to handle her. Then Shiro returned, and the Red Lion didn't felt so right anymore.

That was the crux of the problem. Lance wasn't Shiro's Red Paladin. He was Keith's, and now that Keith was dividing his time between Voltron and the Blades, Lance was in an awkward position, trying to fill a role that wasn't his. Just like old times, really. Inwardly, Lance sighed. ' _Well, at least Shiro is nicer about it than Iverson ever was,'_ he thought.

Aloud, Lance said, "Okay, Shiro."

"Lance –"

He gave a lazy salute. "No, really. I understand. Sir, yes, sir."

As intended, the cavalier response reassured Shiro, whose head shake was both fond and exasperated. "Good," he said and placed his hand on Lance's shoulder. "That's what I need. A can-do attitude. Come on. We're late to the debrief with Kolivan and the others."

As they made their way through the ship, Lance had time to reflect on how full the Castle had gotten, its berths filled with visiting representatives from Voltron's growing number of allies. As they rounded the corner, Keith came into view. He was a welcome sight. Once, Lance wouldn't have thought he'd miss the hothead so badly, but it was true. The castle minus Keith was a dull place, and Lance was glad to have him back, even if he _was_ still wearing the Marmora uniform instead of his rightful paladin whites.

"Keith," Lance said. He drew up short, however, when he realized Keith wasn't alone.

Lance had tremendous respect for the Blades of Marmora. He remembered fighting beside them on a planet under siege. In the aftermath, he'd found a crying child. As he attempted to soothe her, one of the Blades – a huge man with a tail like Antok – came over and touched a tear-stained cheek. It had been so tender, so gentle, that even though the mask had obscured the Galra's eyes, Lance had looked through the lenses and felt a connection, kinship.

However, what he hadn't realized until now, seeing them next to Keith _without_ their ubiquitous masks, was that some of the Blades were young. Quite young. It was nested in their cheekbones, in the cockiness of their stance. And most of all in the way they teased each other. They stopped talking when he approached, and Lance felt his face heat up. "Um. Hello?"

Keith cut straight to the chase. "What happened out there? You disappeared."

Hardly a warm greeting between friends, but Lance shrugged it off. Keith was Keith. "I didn't _disappear_. I just found a sniping position, that's all."

Keith's frown deepened. "Red doesn't work that way."

Lance begged to differ. Of course, the Red Lion did like to be in the middle of the action; however, as far as Lance could tell she didn't mind his approach. Sniping made nice explosions, and he could feel her satisfaction when they hit a really challenging target. Under ordinary circumstances, Lance probably would have argued about it, but he was uncomfortable with having it out in front of Keith's buddies.

Instead he took a deep breath. "Are you going to introduction me, Keith, or should I just call everyone Steve?"

The joke fell flat, but thankfully it didn't linger. Keith jerked around and pointed. "This is Catz, Thread, and Markon. And Jaque. Guys, this is Lance."

Three of the Blades nodded; however, the one Keith had called Jaque did not. _He_ was gazing at Lance with eyes set under a brow of almost delicate ridges. His lavender face was sparsely furred with pale lines of white streaking his cheeks, and his mouth was a knife cut, thin and hard. When he lifted his lip, a fang peeked through. Lance didn't know why, but the guy made him think of the Garrison. There, an upperclassman had made a game of getting under Lance's skin. Shoving his uniform into a urinal, trashing his bunk before inspection, hacking at least two of his exams. This guy – Jaque – had a similar look.

Lance bit back his uneasiness. ' _What do you think the guy is going to do, pants you?'_

"So this is the Blue Paladin?" Jaque asked. "Up close, he looks more like a kitten than a lion, although I can't say I'm surprised. That scrawniness must be the human in you, _Keith_."

Without giving any warning, Keith jabbed the guy in the ribs. It made Jaque grunt, and the others chuckled as Keith rolled his eyes. "Shut up, Jaque."

Lance smiled along, satisfied to see Keith knock the guy down a peg. The back-and-forth had the earmarks of an old beef, and if Jaque had a habit of making snide comments about humans, Lance could understand why that was. Unfortunately, his grin caught Jaque's eye, and he pierced Lance with a penetrating glare. "What are you smirking at?"

The hostility had Lance taking a mental step back. A physical step, too, which was a mistake. Jaque looked him up and down. The other Blades looked, too, their eyes flat and judgmental.

"Gentleman," Shiro called from the debriefing room. "We're ready to get started."

The Blades followed orders immediately, going to take their seats around the table. Keith brought up the end. "Way to go, _Lance_ ," he hissed as he passed.

Lance stared after him, confused. What had just happened?

* * *

The debrief was long, and Lance was so preoccupied he didn't have much to add. By the time it was over, all he wanted was to do was slip into comfy clothes and hang out with his bros. He was destined to be disappointed, however. They'd barely even finished before Kolivan was saying, "With your permission, my men would like the use of your training facilities."

Were these guys kidding? They'd spent the entire morning in a firefight and their idea of winding down was more fighting? Fortunately, Shiro would never go along with… Lance saw the Black Paladin raise his head from where he'd been rubbing his eyes. Oh, no.

"What a good idea, Kolivan. A combined workout would be good for morale."

"That's a pass for me," Pidge pipped up. "Hunk, Matt, and I are in the middle of a project, and it'll probably take us all night to work out the kinks. You guys have fun, though."

Lance felt a pang. Part of him wanted to join them, but he already knew that was a no-go. They'd spend hours under a console, talking about things Lance couldn't even understand. Whenever that happened, Pidge wasn't interested in playing _Killbot Phantasm_ , and Hunk basically spoke in tongues, all sines, cosines, and tangents. Suck on the outside, Lance felt lonely, but what could he do? He was hardly going to complain about Pidge getting her family back.

Keith, of course, looked eager. "There's nothing like a Marmora sparring session."

Yeah, Lance bet. No doubt they had been trained as catlike assassins since the day they were born. He'd seen them jump out of his lion's belly like freaking ninja, for goodness sake. Nope. No, thank you. Lance could do without the humiliation. He edged his way around the periphery of the group. "Um, maybe I should just –"

He pointed with both thumbs down the corridor, but before he could make his escape, Kolivan's hand descended on his shoulder. "Nonsense. The Blades have been eager to meet Keith's comrades, and what better way to do so?"

Meeting any of the Blades in combat sounded like a horrible way to make friends, but before Lance could come up with a way to decline, Shiro made the decision for him. "It'll be good for you, Lance. You could use some work on your hand-to-hand."

The way he said it made Lance squirm, because, yeah, he knew his hand-to-hand wasn't great, but it still sucked to have it pointed out in front of one of their most important allies, especially one he respected as much as Kolivan. Perhaps the Galra leader could sense his discomfort, because he squeezed Lance's shoulder in a way that was probably meant to bolster his resolve. In actuality, it made his collarbone creak.

"No one is a master of all skills. The key is time and practice."

Lance swallowed but resisted the urge to whine. Not in front of the Blades, and not when he'd already failed to be the Red Paladin Shiro needed. Keith was glaring, too, as though daring him to slink away. Seeing the writing on the wall, Lance scrounged for a weak smile. "Whoopie," he said.

* * *

Lance was sore and miserable. By his weary reckoning, the training session had been going on for more than three hours, yet the Blades never seemed to tire, as efficient in combat as gladiator bots. Actually, Lance would have rather fought gladiator bots, but unfortunately that wasn't an option.

At the moment, he was standing on the sidelines while Keith wiped the floor with everyone. Keith had been paired with one of the younger Blades, the one called Catz. Catz smiled a lot and had ears that ended in adorable white tuffs. There was nothing adorable about the way he used a spear, however, and with his back to Keith and his flashing sword, they seemed invincible. Lance couldn't help but think Keith seemed in his element, barely able to be told apart from the deadly warriors taking part alongside him.

Lance, on the other hand, felt entirely out of place. All around him were ready faces. He got the sense they thought of this as a sport. You know, something you did for fun. Lance, on the other hand, was pretty sure he had a full set of bruises, one in every color of the rainbow, and there was a persistent ringing in his ears that hadn't faded since his last sparring match.

A match he lost. Like, really lost. _Embarrassingly_ lost.

A cheer went up. Keith and Catz had overcome their opponents. They clasped each other's arm in a warrior's handshake. Someone tossed Keith a towel, and he rubbed it on his face. When he came up for air, he was smiling. Keith rarely smiled like that. Was he really happier with the Blades? Stomach sinking, Lance wasn't paying attention when someone came up behind him.

A shove sent him stumbling forward. Startled, Lance turned around…and found that guy from earlier, Jaque, gazing at Lance as though waiting to see what he would do. Though they were clearly playing attention, the other Blades didn't intervene or voice any objection. They also seemed to be waiting.

Lance shifted. "Can I help you?"

Jaque said, "You look forlorn, paladin, standing in a corner watching the real warriors fight. I thought you might like a challenge."

Eyebrows flying up, Lance said, "In case you hadn't noticed, we were all watching. Keith and Catz, with their shiny weapons. Were you even paying attention?"

The sass was second nature, his go-to method for diffusing uncomfortable situations. If he'd thought about it, he would have realized it was a bad idea, but it was too late for taksies-backsies. Jaque made a low, deep sound in his throat. "Do you know what I think? I think you're all bark and no bite. Why don't I prove it to you? Now that your brethren is done flashing his 'shiny' weapon, it appears the floor is free."

A sparring match? That's what this guy was angling for? Lance gave Jaque a once-over. He wasn't massively over Lance's weight class. Actually, he was pretty slender, though he was no doubt solid muscle under that lean figure. There was also a glow of anticipation in his eye, his blood already pumping. Lance doubted he could take the guy down. Doubted he could even put up a good show, really. But, hey, he'd gotten himself into this mess. Which is why he lifted a shoulder.

"Okay, then."

Jaque paced into the center of the training room and loosened his arms. Lance reluctantly followed. No weapon had appeared, which probably meant this was going to be _mano-a-mano_. In other words, Lance's lousy odds had just gotten lousier. He caught sight of Keith, the towel still hanging around his neck. He was chewing on his lip, but there was a determined look in his eye. When he caught Lance's gaze, he gave a curt nod.

Lance raised his hands, which felt about as useful as two sacks of flesh, complete with highly crunchable bones. Jaque's needle-tipped fists looked much more formidable. In an undertone, the Galra asked, "Are you ready to really fight?"

What kind of question was that? Nevertheless, Lance nodded. "Bring it on."

Jaque didn't hesitate. One tick he was standing there, bouncing on the balls of his feet, and the next he was a pale blur that sent Lance ricocheting several feet. He groaned. Quiznak, that hurt. One shot and he already felt like a train wreck. Only his sharp reflexes allowed himself to twist away from the following blow. And for a while, that agility was enough. Jaque's frustration grew palpable as his opponent kept _just_ out of reach. However, Lance knew he couldn't keep it up forever. He was already tiring, and he still had yet to land a single blow.

Inspiration struck. As another jab clipped his chin, Lance allowed himself to fall. It gave him the right angle to hook his leg behind Jaque's knee. Tangled in their combined limbs, the other fighter went down, and Lance took the opportunity to thrust a knotty elbow into Jaque's abdomen. His opponent wheezed, and Lance used this moment of incapacitation to put some distance between them.

"You're going to pay for that," Jaque said hoarsely as he levered himself upright.

Lance drew his fists into a ready position. Or what he thought was a ready position. Shiro was always telling him to adjust his fingers, to turn his wrists just so. In the fog of the moment, Lance wasn't sure if he was doing it right. Nonetheless, he prepared himself as best he could

Jaque had realized that Lance was trying to maintain distance, and he pressed close in order to use the bone-crushing advantage of his alien strength. Without recourse, Lance attempted to grapple, but it was a terrible idea. He ended up on his backside, scuttling backward as Jaque made a savage attack.

What happened next was pure instinct. With perception trained to take in an entire battlefield at a glance, Lance zeroed in on a glove that had been dropped on the floor. Metallic plates studded the finger shafts, and Lance snatched it without thinking. Then he pitched it like a skipping rock, sending it skimming under Jaque's feet.

The Galra fell. Hard. Lance heard his head crack on the floor. Worried that he'd done serious harm, Lance took an ill-fated step forward. It gave him no room to react. One minute he was wondering whether he'd given his ally a concussion and the next minute there was a purple fist around his neck, claws digging into the delicate tissue of his throat. White spots exploded before his vision even before Jaque smashed him into the ground. Then he was thrown. His body tumbled, over and over. When he finally stopped, Lance was on his stomach. A whine made it through his lips, which were pretty much the only thing he could move. Everything else felt pulverized.

Jaque, meanwhile, was heading in his direction, ready for round two.

But, see, the thing was, Lance knew his limits. And, man, even his _teeth_ were hurting. At this rate he was going to end up with a lot more than a battered ego and a few bruises. He'd end up in a cryopod, and they couldn't afford to be down a pilot, not with things as tenuous as they were.

He held up his hands, "I give."

Silence. It filled the whole room. Even Jaque, who had been looking murderous, stopped and stared at him. "What did you say?"

Lance groaned, pulling himself into a sitting position. He scrubbed his face, hoping it would clear his head. Ow. He'd forgotten his teeth. And his nose. And his neck. "I give up," he repeated, giving a feeble flutter of his hand. "White flag. You win. Hooray."

"You're forfeiting," Jaque repeated.

"Yes," Lance said. He swayed as he regained his feet, but only a little. He held out his hand. "Good match."

Jaque did not shake his hand. Instead he stared at it, wearing a look that Lance couldn't read. When he raised his eyes, though, the underlying emotion was clear. It was contempt. And he wasn't the only one. The whole crowd of Blades were gazing at him with similar expressions. Lance took it in, his stomach sinking. Apparently, among the Marmora, there was no such thing as an honorable retreat.

Lance lowered his hand.

Jaque muttered, "I knew you were a trickster, more rogue than fighter, but I didn't realize you were spineless, too."

Before Lance had a chance to respond, a voice carried over the intercom. "Gentleman, dinner is now being served in the commissary," came Allura's melodic voice. "Please head there directly."

For a moment, the tableau on the training room floor remained unbroken, but then somebody coughed and the sound of the motion-activated doors could be heard. Jaque left with the others, but not without deliberately ramming into Lance.

Lance rubbed his shoulder. "Jerk," he hissed at the Galra's retreating back.

Keith crossed his arms. "He's just posturing. If you wouldn't back down, he wouldn't talk to you like that. He expects you to push back."

"Well, excuse me for not being interested in flexing my pectorals to get respect." His chest tightened, but he squeezed out the words he was thinking nevertheless. "I'm not like that."

Keith snapped, "Well, it makes you look weak."

"Since when does throwing around your weight make you strong?"

"Being able to defend yourself is the literal definition of being strong. Cowards back down."

Nostrils flaring, Lance snapped, "I'm not a coward."

"Then stop embarrassing yourself," Keith said, and he stalked off, going to join his new friends. Lance was left alone in the empty training room, bruised in body and heart, the Blades' and Keith's disdain heavy on his mind.

* * *

The castle's corridors were draped in artificial night. Everywhere, its denizens curled up in bunks and took their rest. However, in the hub standing watch over the training room, the computer console glowed with activity. Its setting: Long-range combat, Solo, Level XXII.

Outside, the chamber itself was transformed. No longer a blank canvas for the sparring matches of earlier in the day, it was now a place of niches and hollows, platforms and unevenness of surface. Gladiators worked nimbly through the terrain, firing at the subject of the simulation, but he was high, unreachable for the moment, and he was ready. One after another, he targeted them, and one after another, they went down in a pile of electrical discharge.

From his position, Lance ignored the sweat beading down his forehead, blinking away the sting of it rather than let his finger leave the trigger, even for a moment. This was what he could do, what he was built for. His eye took in every detail, mapping positions in his head. It came easy, so much easier than earlier that day.

The gladiators were coming at him from all directions now. He spotted some beginning to scale to his position and changed his angle, but a bolt seared past his forehead when he did, and he cursed. Time to abandon the high ground; speed would finish off what precision started. His bayard shifted without thought when he reached solid ground, firing rapidly at the approaching hoards. There was a dozen left, two dozen. The only way not to be overwhelmed was never to miss. Lance did not miss. He clamped down on his lip, his concentration absolute.

There was a moment of intensity, when it almost seemed too much, and then the last enemy was collapsing into a heap of metallic limbs. Lance lowered his weapon, heaving a sigh even as the computer announced, "Level cleared. Proceed to next level?"

On an ordinary night, Lance would have called a halt. Wiped away the perspiration from his forehead and hit the showers. Tonight, though, he didn't feel the usual steadying confidence that came after one of these solo sessions, the kind where he could practice the actual skill he brought to Voltron. Instead, the oppression that had driven him from his bed was still there.

"Start close combat training," he heard himself say. "Level four."

A single gladiator appeared, weaponless. It approached him even as Lance let his bayard dissipate and sunk into a weary but ready stance. For a while, he kept up just fine, even landed a hit or two, but soon the relentless skill of his opponent became too much. Lance struck clumsily at the metal side with the wrong part of his hand, yelped as it bounced off. The gladiator took advantage, getting under his ribs so that he saw stars when his head bounced off the floor.

The calm computer voice said, "Failed sequence. Repeat level?"

"Yes," Lance hissed.

He lost again. And again. And again.

By the sixth time, his vision was blurring so badly he was no longer sure he was facing only one opponent. He squinted and saw Jaque. Laughter, bitter as any poison, filled the room, and Lance was no longer sure if he was imagining it. With a bark of desperation, he threw himself at his enemy. The gladiator bot struck his jaw, and this time Lance was certain he lost consciousness. The next thing he knew he was on his knees, listing as the sound of metal boots approached. He looked over his shoulder in time to see the attack, the gladiator launching itself toward him to make the killing blow.

Once again, his reaction was pure instinct. The blaster formed, whined. Fired.

The gladiator went down, a perfect hole in its forehead. Smoke billowed out. The disembodied voice of the computer announced the results with finality. "Conditions defied. Failed sequence."

"Dammit!" Lance swore, pounding his fist on the ground. He stared at his bayard with hard eyes, willing it to change. Into a sword. A whip. Anything other than what it was. Of course, it remained stubbornly the same. Just like Lance. For a while he stared at nothing, waiting for the intensity of the emotion he felt to die down and the tightness in his throat to dissipate.

"So much for that," he muttered. He fell backward onto the floor and laid there, limp with defeat.

* * *

Author's Note: This story was written because ranged and close-combat fighting are not the same, and it's unfair to compare them to one another. It also ended up being so long that I had to split it into two parts. The other half is already written and in the revision phase. Here's a preview:

' _Lance looked at his tormentor. Jaque didn't know that Lance dreamed about the freezing embrace of the cryopod, reliving the horror of those few seconds while he stared, voiceless and helpless, through the transparent veil at Coran's averted back. He certainly didn't know about the air lock. No one could be that cruel, right? Jaque depressed a button on the wall, and one of the smaller tubes ejected. It was long and narrow, like a coffin, and when loaded, it would be sucked back into the wall…_

 _That was when Lance really began to fight.'_

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	5. The Friend of My Friend - Part 2

**The Friend of My Friend Is My Enemy – Part Two  
** Chapter Summary: Some members of the Blade of Marmora hassle Lance. It goes too far.

* * *

New morning, new day. Lance was still feeling lousy, but it was with a leveler head that he went about his business, convinced that if he could just avoid the Blades until they left, things would go back to normal with only a smidgen of existential crisis left over for him to deal with. He didn't go to breakfast, not wanting to answer anyone's questions about the rather spectacular bruise he was sporting from the gladiator bot. He could just hear the commentary now: _"What happened, Lance? Walk into a wall trying to catch your reflection in the door paneling?"_

It wouldn't be mean spirited. When Pidge giggled and Hunk snorted behind a cough and Shiro blinked hard to hide his mirth, they wouldn't be trying to hurt his feelings. However, Lance's sense of inadequacy hadn't yet faded to the point where he could handle being laughed at, even by his friends. Maybe especially by his friends. And he didn't want to see Keith shake his head again.

So Lance did what he did best to kill time: Chores.

The Castle Ship wasn't really a castle, but it _was_ huge, and there were plenty of quiet, isolated places. Most of these were functional: cooling units, engines, food manufacture. Also laundry units, which was where Lance was heading, hauling a crate in his arms. He was just coming out of a smooth curve when he ran headlong into someone. "Ooph." he said, even as he was already forming the words to apologize. "Sorry, I –"

"It's the Blue Paladin."

Lance's chin snapped up, confronted with familiar furred faces. Why the heck were these guys down here? They were wearing their training clothes, so maybe they'd been doing stamina exercise? He'd seen the Blades doing laps before, but this was the first time he'd run into them. Of course Jaque was there, and the three other young Blades. That should have made him feel better, but the apprehensive look in Catz's eyes didn't exactly fill him with confidence.

"Fancy meeting you here." Lance made an effort to keep his voice light, even though instinct was whispering for him to get the hell out of there. These were Kolivan's handpicked soldiers, prodigies like Keith. Even in a fair fight, like yesterday, he would lose. But he didn't really have anything to fear, right? These were friends. Well, friends of friends anyway.

Jaque jostled his crate. "Laundry detail? A bit menial, isn't it?"

Lance's face heated up. "Everyone works here. Everyone does their part."

He expected a retort, but Jaque surprised him. Instead, there was a spark of interest in his eye. "Did I just hear a growl from you? That's encouraging. After all, even the half-breed knows when to bare his teeth."

Hearing Keith referred to as a half-breed sent fury shooting through Lance, but he wasn't going to be baited. He tried to take a step back, only to find the other Blades were hemming him in. "Jaque," Catz spoke. His eyes darted up and down the hall.

Jaque looked keyed up, excited. "He's supposed to be a warrior, isn't he? But just look at how soft." He jabbed Lance in the belly. It hurt, especially with the sharpness of Galran fingernails. "These humans are all weak, but at least their leaders are fighters. This one needs to be taught, and if his comrades won't do it, then maybe we should."

"The paladins won't like it," Catz said. "This isn't how they operate."

"Are you worried your new allies will be upset with you? What are you, a recruit? Show some nerve. We'll be doing them a favor."

If Lance knew one thing for certain, it was that he didn't want to be on the receiving end of any of Jaque's favors. In a snap decision, he dropped the crate and made a break for it. Unfortunately, someone grabbed the back of his shirt. Lance jerked and twisted, kicking out with his legs, but the Blades just lifted him off the ground. "It's like holding a cub," one remarked in amusement.

"Strength isn't everything," Catz murmured. He was staying on the edge of the proceedings, but he didn't stop them.

Jaque didn't say anything. Instead, he regarded Lance thoughtfully. "I was starting to worry that even your sense of self-preservation was defunct, but you will fight back if the stakes are high enough, won't you?" He gestured to the others. "I have an idea."

He led them into the laundry unit, revealing a room with a large industrial processing unit and several smaller ones for personal use. They were all set into the wall, appearing as small, transparent portholes.

"During a simulation earlier this week," Jaque said, "you paladins were required to make use of the ductwork to reach an optimal position. I noticed you didn't enjoy it very much."

With a creeping sense of dread, Lance recalled exactly which simulation Jaque was talking about, and sweat broke out down his back. He shook his head. "No."

Jaque went on. "I gather you aren't particularly fond of enclosed spaces. Hardly a vulnerability befitting a soldier. What will you do when called upon to perform in the heat of battle?"

He would deal with it. He always dealt with it. Lance looked at his tormentor. Jaque didn't know where this fear really stemmed from. He didn't know that Lance dreamed about the freezing embrace of the cryopod, reliving the horror of those few seconds while he stared, voiceless and helpless, through the transparent veil at Coran's averted back. He certainly didn't know about the air lock. No one could be that cruel, right?

Jaque depressed a button on the wall, and one of the smaller tubes ejected. It was long and narrow, like a coffin, and when loaded, it would be sucked back into the wall…

That was when Lance really began to fight. He thought he'd given his all before, but now he knew his true limit, bucking and shouting and scratching. One of the Galra lost their grip, and he dropped to the floor. He managed to get in a kick that connected with a satisfying crunch, but his resistance was hopeless. They pressed him down, forced him to submit.

His captor, the one Keith had called Thread, was almost laughing. There was blood on his face. "He's got some strength in those legs of his." He pinched Lance's side where his shirt had ridden up. "Though would you look at him. So hairless and scrawny! It's a wonder humans make it into adulthood."

"The Black Paladin is definitely larger, though still small for a proper soldier. Do you think they'll all end up like that, even the hybrid?"

"Keith might be a half-breed, but he has Galra blood," Jaque said. "I'd wager he'll be impressive once he hits his stride. As for this one, it's time to see if humans, too, can be awakened."

"Jaque, _don't,_ " Catz tried once more to protest.

"I'm treating him like a comrade," Jaque snapped. "Isn't that what we're supposed to do, accept these people as our own? Besides, _Keith_ deserves a pack mate that won't crumple when it really matters." He looked down at Lance. "Isn't that right?"

Lance could feel panic bubbling up to the surface, rising and gathering like sea foam, with occasional pops of terror and adrenaline. Beneath the hands of his so-called comrades, he was beginning to shake. He gasped when they lifted him bodily, manhandling him until he was trapped just above the opening of the tube. It was transparent, and he could see the floor through it, but once he was inside, it would be dark. He started hyperventilating, and before he could stop himself, a few words squeezed out. "Jaque, please –"

The young Galra looked at him impassively, like he was watching this happen from a place of objectivity. He didn't look angry. There was no malice. "Whether you believe this or not," he said, "I really am trying to help you."

Then they thrust him inside.

He heard the mechanical sound of the system activating, felt swift and sudden movement as the tube was drawn back into the wall. No, no, no. There was a hiss as the seal engaged, and then there was only Black. It smothered him, pressing against him on all sides. He was half-curled, his arm jammed beneath him. It was too tight to do more than squirm a few inches. No room for his legs, no room for his arms, no room for his chest to expand… He could feel the cool surface of the tube against his cheek and let out a cry.

"Help, help, help," he didn't know if he whispered or wailed, but he already knew it wouldn't matter. He would remain trapped until Jaque decided to let him out or he lost consciousness from lack of oxygen. How much could this tiny space have?

Raw with emotion, Lance didn't hear the new sound at first. It was a harsh noise, like air released under pressure. Or a water valve opening. He knew it a mere second before the liquid rushed up to meet his lips, filling his mouth before he could close it. He had a moment for pure, electric terror to go straight through his vital parts, short-circuiting his brain, but he did not pass out – for better or for worse he did not pass out. Because in that vital second, he was aware enough to draw in one single, desperate breath of air through his nose, but he was also completely, totally, horribly awake when the water fully enveloped him and the system began its wash cycle.

The water gyrated with incredible force, put in motion by the power of Altean technology. He'd been sure he could not move one inch, but now he found that with the lubrication of the soapy mixture, he could move. There was, in fact, plenty of space for his body to be violently jerked and twisted. It was like being pummeled, strangled, and compressed all at once, and he closed his eyes, unable to stop the silent scream that was choked from him in a violent expulsion of bubbles.

The realization that he wasn't going to make it trickled through the hysteria. He had swallowed too much water and could already feel his brain shutting down. He was the Blue Paladin of Voltron, Guardian Spirit of the Ocean, and he was going to die by drowning.

And then – light.

Someone seized him by the back of the neck, and then he was sitting up in the sloshing tube, rivulets streaming from his hair and face and chin. The person who had hold of him pounded his back, but Lance was a newborn. He could feel his limbs, knew they were there; however, they seemed capable of only jerky, boneless movement. His vision cleared slowly, more slowly than his hearing, which came back with a jolt, as though one of his jarring coughs had gotten it loose.

"By the forefathers, _Jaque_ – this goes too far. You might have killed him! What explanation would you have given then? What justification?"

"Catz," Lance murmured the name, but no one was listening to him. He was vaguely aware he was half submerged in the tubing, and he shuddered, sloshing as he tried to get out, but he was still being held. He felt the bite of nails going straight through his clothes.

"You're a fool, a stupid fool," Catz voice was saying. "He's a _paladin_."

"What of it?" Jaque demanded, and his words somehow made it through the sickening fog around Lance's head so that he heard them loud and clear, even though they weren't directed at him. "Did you hear the story of how they came to be paladins? They're infants, carried off a planet so backward they haven't even made it out of their solar system yet. But this isn't a crèche or a game. This war against Zarkon is everything. Our father and grandfathers and great-grandfathers were killed for the opportunity on which we're now capitalizing, and if _anyone_ can't handle that responsibility, we could very well die without ever realizing our destiny. Is that what you want? For us? For him?"

Catz's jaw clenched. He didn't answer.

Jaque ruffled Lance's soaking hair. His hand felt hard and unkind, though his words were even. "A paladin. Probably wet himself like a child. Come on. We're going to be late for roll call."

The support holding him withdrew, and Lance almost collapsed. Only his absolute desire not to sink back into the murky water allowed him to stop his decent. His rasping breaths were so violent it took him a moment to realize his attackers were gone. Eventually, though, sensory input returned. He could smell disinfectant, could feel the cloying taste of it in his mouth. He could hear the lapping water against his thighs. He was alone in this sterile room, trembling so hard he could feel his teeth rattle.

Very slowly, he drew his arms around himself. He hugged tight, trying to hold his body together. Then he bent over and let a sob rattle out of him. Because why not? It wasn't like anyone was going to hear him.

* * *

Lance was shaking as he walked down the hall. Correction: He was still shaking. Whether it was from shock or from the cold he didn't know. His clothes were wet, though he was no longer actively dripping, and the air from the ship's environmental control left him deeply chilled. He hardly paid attention to where his feet were taking him. To a hot shower, or to his soft, warm pajamas. Or to Hunk. His throat tightened, congested sinuses closing off completely as he thought of his friend.

But, no. Hunk was probably with Matt and Pidge. Was he welcome there?

But Lance needed someone, and his subconscious must have known that because he ended up in one of the residential passages. He might have run into anyone. Shiro, passing by on his way to the bridge. Allura and Coran, deep in conversation. Even Kolivan. Instead, it was an altogether different person who came around the corner, scowling at the floor as though deep in thought.

Keith.

When the former Red Paladin noticed him, a play of emotions passed over his face. Surprise. Reluctance. Then he pursed his lips and stepped forward. "Lance," he began. "Look, about what happened yesterday. I want to apologize –"

He stopped talking when Lance's condition registered. Lance didn't know what he looked like. His senses were still fogged with the smell of detergent, his eyes burning and red-rimmed. Standing there with his arms close to his body, he didn't feel human, and he suspected that from an outside viewpoint he was a complete wreck.

Keith grabbed him by the arms. "What happened? You're soaking wet."

Trembling lips parted, but instead of finding words, Lance crumpled. Shuffling closer, he bowed his head until it rested on Keith's shoulder and gripped his shirt in tight fists. Whatever mechanism allowed him to control his mind and body was offline. The only thing that registered was that someone else was there, someone safe, and all he wanted to do was hold on until the dizzying vertigo went away.

Perhaps not surprisingly, Keith went still. However, rather than spurn the contact, so out of place between them, he reached around with both wiry arms and gripped tightly. "Hey," he kept saying, like he didn't know what other word to use. "Hey."

Eventually, Lance pulled himself together. One hand remained fisted in Keith's shirt for a single extra moment, then he forced himself to uncurl his fingers, one at a time. A shuddering breath later, and he was able to murmur a hoarse, "Thanks."

He tried to slouch in the direction of his bunk, but Keith slammed his palm into the wall, blocking his path. "The hell you just get to walk away after that," he said, but while his voice was strident and harsh, his wide-eyed expression told another story. "What's going on, Lance? Did the Castle attack you again? An enemy?"

Lance stared. What was he supposed to say? _'Your new buddies think I'm unequipped to be the Red Paladin – hey, just like you and Shiro! – and they were trying to make me a better soldier by drowning me in a laundry tube.'_ Heck, no. His throat worked around a tight ball of distress even thinking of it. He'd sooner tell Allura's mice the truth about where their tasty cheese came from.

Kaltenecker, he thought. That's where he should have gone.

"Lance!" Keith shook him out of his reverie. "You're really freaking me out, spacing like this. Talk to me. Do I need to get Coran?"

There was a crackling sound when he breathed, which meant he could have water in his lungs. Other than that, though, all his injuries were old. There would be no proof, making it his word against theirs. And Lance knew exactly where that would go. Weariness seeped in, and he gave a shove that probably had as much strength in it as a Arusian child. "I'm going to my room. If anyone wants me, no."

"I can't just let you walk off. You look like death, Lance."

"I'm not dead." And he wasn't. How crazy was that? There'd been moments he was sure… He throat closed again, and he tilted back his head, feeling like air was coming to him through a straw.

A hand gripped his chin, and Keith demanded, "Where did this nasty bruise come from. You didn't have it yesterday."

"Solo training," Lance said honestly. Because he _was_ being honest.

Keith's eyebrows shoved down. "Shiro told us to stop doing that."

"He told _you_ to stop doing that," Lance clarified. "I have sucky hand-to-hand skills. Remember?"

 _That_ provoked a different reaction. Keith's face fell, and he took a breath. "About that. Look, even before we ran into each other, I was trying to find you. I'm sorry I gave you a hard time yesterday, okay? It's been a bit…confusing, going back and forth between Voltron and the Blades. They have a really different philosophy. When I'm there, there's this strong pack-bond, but you have to prove yourself. Like wolves, you know. But they're not all jerks like Jaque."

A snort tore its way out of Lance, despite everything.

Keith didn't give up trying to make his point. "Seriously. They throw their weight around, but it doesn't mean anything. I bear my teeth, they leave me alone. Easy. But I shouldn't have gotten angry with you for doing things your way. That wasn't fair."

Lance was tired, too tired for this. His blankets were a siren call, his quiet, solitary berth a cloister where he could hide his face and just breathe. Which is why he said, "Okay, Keith."

But Keith was not Shiro. He didn't operate like Shiro, didn't react like Shiro, and instead of letting Lance off the hook, Keith got angry. "Dammit, Lance! Don't tell me it's okay when it isn't!"

Keith's outburst ignited the fire in Lance's own belly, and before he could stop himself, his most sulfuric thoughts came tumbling out. "And what exactly do you want me to say, _Keith_? I'm sorry I'm not like the Blades. I'm sorry I'm not like _you_. Sorry my stupid bayard only turns into a gun, and sorry I can't read Shiro's mind or do calculus in my head or," he gagged, "stand tight places. Despite what everyone seems to think, I'm doing the best I can, alright?"

There was a beat of silence, and then, with the same bewilderment he'd had during their last heart-to-heart, Keith asked, "What are you talking about?"

A crazy laugh sprang from Lance's lips. "You really are the worst conversationalist in the universe, you know? If you had an action figure, no one would buy it because all of your stock phrases suck."

Keith had a fix on him now, though, and like a sullen hound, he wouldn't let go. He repeated his foray from earlier, this time with deadly earnestness. "Lance, tell me what happened."

"Nothing happened," Lance said.

Keith growled, low in his throat. "Tell me. What. Happened."

Lance didn't know what exactly made him give in. Maybe it was the worry he saw, lurking behind Keith's eyes, or maybe it was just that exhaustion had weakened his walls too much to keep storing up a secret about something he could barely believe happened, even now. One way or another, he heard himself say, "Jaque and his buddies were hassling me." The explanation came easier than expected, as though he stood at one remove, listening to someone else talk with his voice. "He noticed I didn't like ductwork. Stuffed me in one of the laundry units." A shudder went through him. "Scared me."

"He put you in one of the laundry units?" Keith demanded. "Those tiny ones downstairs?" The full reality seemed to strike him all at one time, because rage filled every inch of him. "While there was water in it?"

Lance's hands were back around his arms, squeezing. "Yes."

Keith's voice was so tight it was hard to understand him. "That bastard," he hissed. "I'm going to kill him."

"Please, don't. What's that going to prove, anyway?"

"That I won't let him get away with trying to drown my friend."

As eye-roll inducing as Keith's penchant for solving every issue with violence was, Lance was still warmed by the outburst. Everything seemed softer, more manageable. It made him able to say, "That's really nice and all, Keith, but to be totally honest with you, I'd rather you help me get into the shower without falling over. I think the water has done something to my inner ear."

He had to wait while Keith buffered. "A shower," he finally said.

Lance sighed. "I'm cold."

That was all it took. Keith gave a decided nod and stepped to the side. "Fine. Warm water, warm clothes, and then I am calling Coran. _And_ Shiro."

"Cool, cool," Lance said. He was floating, kind of. All he'd heard was the part about warm water. The rest, he was sure, Keith could handle. He held out his hand. "Just let me lean on your arm."

Ten minutes later, Lance was standing under a stream of water, while his _friend_ , Keith, hovered somewhere outside, waiting for him to finish. For that reason alone, he reluctantly got out and struggled into his warmest, softest pajamas. He had no idea what time it was or if he had anything else he was supposed to be doing, but he didn't care. He was going to sleep until everything made sense again.

Face buried up to his ears in a pillow, Lance barely heard Keith's voice when he spoke. "Lance?"

It seemed like too much effort to turn over, but Lance managed to crack an eye. "Hm?"

Keith cleared his throat. "I really am sorry. That I didn't say anything yesterday. I got tunnel vision."

Lance closed his eyes again. "I'm over it."

Keith had the most skeptical eyebrows of anyone Lance had ever met. He must have decided to humor him, though, because he huffed out a sigh. "Okay."

A chuckle escaped the pillow as Lance muttered, "Worse action figure in the world."

"Oh, yeah?" Keith countered. "Well, I doubt mine could be worse than Loverboy Lance."

"Ugh. Don't remind me," Lance said, thinking with chagrin about their stint as celebrities in the form of the Voltron Showcase. It had been fun at first, but in the end, it had been more traumatizing that anything.

"I'm kind of glad I missed it," Keith admitted.

That was what he said, but there was an underlying tone, one Lance didn't mistake. He cracked open an eye one more time. "We did miss you," he said.

Keith coughed. "Yeah."

After that, the room sunk into comfortable silence. Lance didn't know it, but the following day, everything was going to come out in the metaphorical wash. Jaque and his cohorts would be forced to explain their actions to a coldly infuriated Kolivan, who would prove that discipline was one more way in which the Blades excelled. Team Voltron would also talk, taking the opportunity to problem-solve the cracks that had formed, and Hunk would hug him so hard that Lance would barely feel the phantom pressure of cold wash water against his clammy skin. But for tonight, this was enough. Lance drifted off to the sound of Keith stoking a whetstone up and down his knife, and fell asleep so weightless that he didn't even dream.

* * *

Author's Note: DONE. The journey on this one, guys. Ugh. I actually wrote the scene where Jaque and the other Blades shove Lance in the laundry unit for a longer story, but last fall's season premiere took the wind out of my sails on that one, and I chose not to pursue it. However, I found that scene too powerful to let go, and I've been looking for a way to use it ever since. Can't wait to hear what you thought!


	6. Bitter Wormwood

**Bitter Wormwood  
** Chapter Summary: The Red Lion misdirects her bitterness about the lion swap, and Lance has an accident.

* * *

It changed so quickly. By lion standards, not even a fraction of a moment passed between the beginning of a newborn era and what happened after. Life began again as the Red Lion soared through the cosmos, shut away no longer behind a barrier blazing red in a the hanger of a Galran battleship. And then – _flash_. The Black Paladin was gone.

The Black Lion grieved. He sprawled in the central hanger, limp and unresponsive. Red thought he might remain that way for another millennia, but, of course, that didn't happen. She may not have heard the commission Shiro gave beyond the corrupted wormhole, but had she not carried Voltron's second-in-command since the days of Alfor?

So Keith ascended to become the head of Voltron, and Red told herself she should be proud. That carried her through the first tumultuous trade, the one with Blue wailing while her paladin pressed his hands to her shield and begged… But Blue obeyed the rules that fate had set, and so did Red. She roared, calling for one who was not her pilot, and when he arrived, she opened her maw and let him in. She let him press her controls, connect to her mind and spirit and soul. And they flew. Into battle and into sight of Keith, who was now at the helm of The Black Lion.

Intense, hot emotion had boiled up then, and Red told herself it was pride she felt – _pride._ But when it was all over and the Blue Paladin was panting in her cockpit, bowed over and raw with the strain of piloting her, she realized she wasn't proud. She was seething.

This manifested in the pilot chair jerking back with more force than necessary. The Blue Paladin grunted as he was partially dislodged, the tether withdrawing with a snap. He looked up, eyes wide, and she could feel his uncertainty.

' _Red?'_

She pinched off the connection between them. She knew it hurt him because his teeth snapped together, but Red didn't care. He wasn't hers, and she didn't want him. Eventually, the former Blue Paladin levered himself onto his feet and wobbled down the hatchway. Red was relieved to have him gone.

* * *

Things were not going well with the lions. Lance could admit that much. It wasn't terrible. Voltron _could_ fly once again, and that mattered. He'd seen it in the faces of their allies, in the carvings on the walls of their sacred spaces, in the hushed tone that carried through their stories. The universe needed Voltron. Which is why, as he rubbed his temples with both his hands, he resolved that he was just going to have to deal with this thing between him and Red.

It was complicated, though.

He watched Allura in her new pink uniform speaking to Keith and Kolivan. Coran stood nearby, hands tucked behind him. They were making serious decisions. Lance could tell because of Keith's pinched expression. A tactician rather than a strategist, he had a tendency to get _too_ focused. But Keith was coping, with Lance to back him up. Lance's subconscious murmured, ' _Seems_ you've _found your true niche, Lancy-boy - backup.'_ He forced away the words. They weren't helping. After all, he was doing what he was supposed to do, wasn't he? He'd given up his own bid for leadership, given up his ego to follow Keith, given up his lion to support his team. Wasn't that enough?

"Lance."

His head jerked up. "Yes, Princess?" Allura was frowning. He hadn't exactly been invited into their conversation, but now he wished he'd been paying more attention. Her eyes darted toward the doorway, and he got it. Ah. They wanted him to leave. He stood with barely a wobble, hiding the rubbery feeling in his legs with a smile. "Sorry," he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I'll just – go get some work done, then."

Keith was watching; his unblinking eyes followed Lance to the door, and Lance wished he knew what he was thinking. They'd sunk into a partnership, the two of them, and sometimes it felt right. Lance could sense it in the bond when they formed Voltron: kinship, peace, and trust, singing between them like a rope of light. But other times… Well, then Lance hardly knew where he stood. Like with Red –

He _really_ didn't want to think about Red right now.

Of course, he couldn't avoid it. Not even for a few hours, since he'd told Allura he'd get some work done. Work meant one of two things to him: he could train or he could do chores. Lethargy weighed on him with a heavy hand, and he was sure he'd get his butt kicked by even a level four gladiator. So chores it was.

He found himself in the hanger. _Her_ hanger. He tried not to come here, but sometimes he couldn't help it. He was drawn to her like a tide returning home. Again and again, he came, even though he knew he had no right to these stolen moments. In this case, at least, he could pretend it was duty that motivated him. Allura was too busy for menial tasks, but they still needed doing.

The lions were big, much larger than they appeared from space, where distances were often so massive. Still, Lance took his time. With great care, he went over the Blue Lion's paneling for dings and scratches he could buff away. He examined her moving parts and eased them with lubricant. He washed her with warm water, remembering how her strange voice had once burbled with laughter in the back of his mind while he did so – before, when their minds had been connected.

All was eerily silent now.

' _At least she isn't putting up a barrier,'_ he told himself as he diligently scrubbed. He ignored the way the paneling blurred. ' _Even if you can't hear her anymore, at least she's right here. You can still feel her._ '

He laid his hand on the metal. Once, it had felt textured and alive when he touched it, but now it wasn't much different than any ship. The thought pained him, and he closed his eyes. It wasn't true. She was there. He just wasn't able to sense her anymore.

' _Blue,'_ he spoke, willing the thought to reach her. He leaned forward until his forehead touched her. ' _I'm still here, and I love you.'_

Nothing.

He put away all of the cleaning materials, turned off the hanger lights, and left his lion – no, Allura's lion – as the bulkhead doors shut behind his back.

* * *

Blue was being visited. Red could feel her sorrow as the boy stood in front of her, speaking soft words of regret. Blue still loved him, this child of earth. Her devotion was like the ocean; you could take away from it, but there was always more surging to replace what was lost. This was why, though she pined for Lance, Blue could accept the Altean princess. She had room enough in her heart for two.

Red did not, and her bitterness grew.

It was more than just loneliness. Every time Keith struggled, Red longed to aid him. Instead, she was forced to watch him charge around in the Black Lion, consumed by his doubts. Her new pilot made things worse. ' _Shut up,_ ' Red had hissed more than once, directly into his mind. It forced his jaw to snap shut, but only for a moment. Because Lance wasn't like Alfor or Keith. She could force him to leave her cockpit wrung out, panting, his emotions in turmoil, but she was fire and he was water. The most she seemed able to do is sear him.

Her frustration was already there when Lance arrived, the motion sensors activating and bathing the hanger in harsh light. Red hated the sticky feeling of obligation that drew him, as though she needed his petty attention. But he did come, as predictable as always. He stood in front of her, shoulders low and subdued. "Hey, Red."

He used to talk more. Babble. On and on, like a child who had not learned to control himself. Nowadays, he mostly knew better. He kept things brief, but even so he couldn't seem to help himself from saying _something_.

"I thought you could use a once over after that last battle. How do you feel about a bath?"

For ten thousand years, the Red Lion had sat in a Galra ship and gathered dust. She'd hated it, the stiff feeling of joints which no longer moved, the gritty feeling of congealing grease and drifting particles. To some degree, that had changed at the castle. Keith was a good mechanic, and he never neglected her, but he wasn't into aesthetics. This human was different. After every battle, he appeared without fail to clean a robot the size of a battle cruiser. He was meticulous, dutiful. Gentle.

Ugh, it was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Lance didn't wait for her to answer. From toe to tail tip, he missed no crevice. First the body check, searching for beaches in the hull even though he knew there was nothing but superficial damage. Still he took careful stock. Afterwards, cleaning. Brisk and hot, the way she liked it, and it annoyed her that he knew that. He was perched on her shoulder, working at a particularly stubborn mark, when he spoke. "Kolivan is here."

The Blades of Marmora were interesting allies. Of course, Red didn't care that they were Galra. Her leader had once been Galra, though that ended so poorly. Keith was Galra, though he was also human.

The rag in Lance's hand hesitated. "It's been hard on Keith. He can't stand the thought of stepping into Shiro's shoes. Allura's struggling, too. It hasn't been an easy adjustment for any of us, has it, girl?"

How dare he assume her feelings. She fumed, wishing she could make him stop.

"Hunk is doing okay, I guess. He has nightmares, but he mostly drowns out his anxiety by disassembling things. Pidge is trying to glue her eyeballs to a computer screen. Keith is having the hardest time, though." Lance cleared his throat, and something in his voice changed, grew more serious. "It doesn't help that you and I aren't syncing properly," he said, and though he had spoken almost below the threshold of human hearing, Red had no trouble detecting his hoarse whisper.

Lance looked her in the eye. "I get it. You had to do something you didn't want to do for the sake of your team. I'm not your pilot. Keith is, and you want him back."

The words cut into her, shearing slivers off of Red's indifference, reaching to inner parts which she thought were hidden. Without her willing it, her panels started to vibrate.

If Lance noticed it, he made no sign. "I'm not going to try to take his place, you know. I don't want that, even though you're amazing." He gave a little chuckle. "You're fast and powerful. The kind of ship I used to dream of piloting. But we can't keep going on like this, Red. The others are counting on us, and I can barely think straight after we fly together. My skin always feels like it's burning, pin and needles. Like you," he gulped, "hate me."

She did. She _did_.

"Well, I can accept that," he said, though the hoarseness in his voice suggested otherwise. "But for better or for worse, this is the way things are right now. Can't we work together? Can't you accept me, at least as someone who's trying to keep the team together? Please?"

He sounded so earnest. It eked out of his spirit, which was attached to her own. His eyes caught the hanger lights, glassy. Hopeful.

And suddenly, Red was more than annoyed. She was angry.

Angry, that she had been taken captive by the ones who had murdered Alfor. Angry, for the millennia she had spent as their prisoner. Angry, that she'd had so little time to cherish her freedom. And angry at this brazen child who dared lecture _her_ , as though an infant from a backward planet knew anything of her history, anything of her legacy, anything of her bond with her pilots. Her desire to place blame had until now been frustrated. As much as she might want to, she couldn't blame the Black Paladin. Or Keith, for accepting the role he'd been destined to take. Or Blue, for being flexible when Red was not. Yet the vitriol inside of Red tormented her. It had to go somewhere. So she chose to blame Lance, the only one who was listening. The only one who was there.

"Red," Lance said. He was sweating all of a sudden, and his bare hand, which had been resting on her panels, yanked back. "Ow! Hey, what are you –" Waves of heat began to rise from the metal. Its color changed, and soon it was too great for the fabric of Lance's clothes to protect him. He struggled to adjust his position without touching the red-hot metal with bare skin. "Red, stop!"

She did not listen.

Lance's was panting. Moved beyond the threshold of tolerance, he was forced to move. He slid his legs free, intending to swing for her leg, but the moment his hands made contact, pain blazed through their bond. Immolated fingers spasemed, a scream rent the air – and he fell. Red watched him slam into her leg on the way down. Watched him hit the ground with a crack. Watched his neck twist on impact. When he stopped moving he was on his side, and his hair was gory with blood.

Red remained in her place until the motion-sensitive timer expired and the lights in the hanger went dark.

* * *

Keith walked the halls, uneasy in his mind. He knew something was wrong. Actually, that was an understatement. Everything was wrong. In fact, "wrong" seemed like a pretty dull, inexpressive word to describe the knife that went through Keith every time he thought about Shiro, who was out there somewhere while _he_ stayed in the castle, floundering around in an attempt to lead. Lotor was playing them for fools, everyone's confidence was down the latrine, and the only bright spot was that he and Lance were getting along, which, considering their history, it was kind of a miracle. Yet Keith had come to depend on Lance, who always seemed to know when he was at his lowest.

Hence the hall-walking. After being on the receiving end of that weak-ass smile Lance shot him on the bridge, he knew something was bothering his second-in-command, and this time he was determined to be the one who did something about it. The problem was, Keith couldn't find Lance anywhere. "Where are you?" he mumbled.

Out of nowhere, a spike of adrenaline hit him. It whited out his senses, and when he came back to himself, he was leaning again the wall, his ribs aching. Someone was shaking his shoulder, and he realized it was Hunk. "Keith, what's wrong? We heard you yell all the way down the hall. Are you hurt?"

Keith shook his head. "Where's Lance?" He hadn't intended to say that, but now that the words were out, his throat clenched around anxiety. "Have either of you seen him?"

"Not since this morning. Why? You think something's wrong?"

Pidge was frowning. "We can check with Allura and Coran. If they haven't seen him, we can always use the ship's computer."

Keith nodded. "Do it. I'm going to check the lion hangers."

They parted ways, and Keith headed toward the space where the lions were held. Red's hanger seemed like the place to start, but when the doors opened, it was dark and unoccupied. Still, he stepped inside. The sensors activated, snapping on like the shutter of a camera lens. In that moment he saw Red. "Hey, girl," he greeted, but the rumble of welcome he expected didn't come. There was a scrub brush at his feet, the kind they used for washing their lions. Keith kicked it, surprised to find it lying around. He scanned the area. There was a shadow just beyond Red's claws. Keith squinted to make it out. His brain registered a sneaker, a foot. Cold horror shot through him, and he bolted forward. "Lance!"

Keith grabbed him, intending to give him a shake, but stopped when he saw how limp he was. With trembling fingers, he pressed the space beneath his jaw…and felt the flutter of a heartbeat. Only then did Keith actually breath. Lance wasn't dead. But he was in bad shape. His hair hung in hunks over a halo of partially congealed blood. Quiznak, how long had he been lying here? If it had been any amount of time, shock would have set in, and the fact that he was still unconscious was a bad sign. He needed help.

He ran to the nearest comm and slammed his hand down on it. "Coran!"

Coran answered almost instantly. "My good man, you're right where we need you. The computer says that Lance is in the Red Lion's hanger. Is he with you?"

"He's here, but he's hurt." Keith looked back over his shoulder. "Coran, I think he fell."

"From the lion?" Coran sounded shocked. "Is he conscious?"

"No, and, Coran – his neck looks strange."

Silence echoed back. Finally, Coran answered. "I've alerted the others, and I'm on my way. Keep him warm, and, whatever you do, make sure he stays still."

The only thing Keith had was his jacket, which he draped over Lance. "What happened?" Keith whispered in confusion as he hunched, waiting for the others. "You're so careful around the lions."

The lions.

But no, that couldn't be. Keith looked at the silent beast overhead, his former companion, and a question began to form in his mind. The lions weren't just metal and pistons. They were alive, and they were connected to their pilot. How could Lance have fallen without Red intervening? And why had she not sought help? A roar of anger echoed in his mind, and his eyes widened. That didn't sound like Black or Red.

It sounded like Blue.

"Red," Keith said. "Did you…do this?"

Before he could fully process the idea, the hanger doors opened and there were pounding footsteps. Hunk's cry of anguish – "Lance!" – was quickly overridden by Coran's hurried orders as they secured Lance's delicate parts and lifted him onto a gurney so that he could be safely moved. "Is he going to be okay?" Hunk asked, tears flowing unashamedly down his face. He was clinging to Lance's hand.

Coran compressed his lips.

"The healing pod is waiting," Allura said. They were already moving toward the door.

Standing erect, Keith looked again at the Red Lion. His eyes smoldered.

* * *

Red waited.

She waited a long time after they took Blue's cub away. He hadn't moved, not when they called his name, and not when they touched his head and the bones yielded beneath their hands, and not when they lifted him. There was a blotch on the floor that no one had cleaned yet. It was brown, tacky.

Red listened.

She listened to the hum of the castle and its minds in the background of her own. The Black Lion was displeased. His rumble was castigating. Blue had not stopped roaring. If anyone had doubted her attachment to her former pilot, there was no doubt now. Active and furious, she paced her hanger and yowled out her rage. Red flinched every time their minds brushed, but she kept her distance.

And Keith. She could hear Keith's thoughts, too.

He finally came to her, late in the ship's night. He came like a cloud of thunder. His boots snapped against the metal panels, and he squared with her – small, like organic life tended to be – but equal in measure of fierceness and fury.

"Red," he bit out. She wanted to explain, but he cut the air between them with his hand when she tried to connect to his mind. "Don't!"

Wounded, her eyes lighted. She crooned to him.

He jabbed with his finger. "I saw his hands. They were blistered down to the bone. If it weren't for Altean magic, that alone would have crippled him. His legs were a mess, too. We had to cut the fabric off of him, peel it away from raw skin. Do you know what that smelled like?"

Red didn't know. She couldn't smell, but she knew the sizzle of burnt flesh. Knew the texture, the color.

"And what's worse," Keith said, "is that he didn't make a sound. Do you get that, Red? I was sure he was paralyzed or brain dead or – or _something_ _,_ but what I still don't get is _why_."

This time he let her in enough that her thoughts could be known to him. She spoke into the space that used to be sacred between them, whispering of the gaping loss she felt, of the ache in her metal bones when she saw Keith flying the Black Lion. She spoke of fire and water, how incompatible she and the Blue Paladin were, of how much she hated being forced to take another, so soon. She showed him Lance in her cockpit, struggling to control her speed and power. Showed him carefully removing a scorch mark with his too-gentle hands. Showed his awkward attempt to woo and wink at her before he'd finally given up and merely endured, as she did.

She showed him that day, and the rage that had billowed up like steam from a geyser. Rage she couldn't contain. Couldn't ignore. She drew in Keith's mind the fumble of Lance's burnt hands. The crack of his head, the gush of blood. The silence and dark that followed. She revealed it all, because this was her pilot, and how could she hide anything from him?

By the time she was finished, Keith's fists were trembling. "So that's it," he said. "You were angry about the situation we're in, so you decided to _murder_ _your paladin_."

She recoiled. Murder. No.

"Don't act like you didn't know what you were doing. What did you think was going to happen?" Keith snapped at her.

Keith was wrong. Red didn't like Lance, but she didn't want him to…to _cease_. He was Blue's cub. Her favorite child. For her alone, Red wouldn't want him permanently gone. Blue roared in the back of her mine, vengeant, bereaved, and Red saw an image of Lance's injured body play over her memory banks.

Keith's eyes were whetted. "Now you're sorry?"

The lions could not physically tremble. They weren't made that way, but Red did feel a great unhappiness, as big or bigger than the unhappiness she'd felt before, when Keith left her.

"Listen to me, Red," Keith said. "Do you think I want to pilot the Black Lion? Shiro's lion? To sit in the seat where he sat, to reach for you and know you aren't there? But we aren't the only ones affected. Lance spends hours in Blue's hanger, and she never talks back. Sometimes she even puts up her barrier. How do you think that makes him feel? I know she has her reasons. I know that everything, all of this, is for a reason, but it sucks, and the only one of us who hasn't been an emotional baby about it is Lance. You saw, Red. If it hadn't been for him riding my tail, I'd have gotten us all killed on Thaseryix."

Thaseryix had been terrible. Lance had shouted at Keith again and again, and no matter how Red boiled up to silence him, he had not relented. True, in the end, Lance had helped them survive, but Red had not been able to forgive him.

"You were wrong, Red," Keith said, and he didn't look so much angry anymore as sad. "You were wrong, and if Lance dies, I swear on my father's memory, I'll never pilot you again."

Red roared a denial, getting to her feet, but Keith turned and walked out of the hanger.

* * *

Several quintants had passed before the hanger door activated again, admitting a slender shadow. Lance worked up the nerve to step into the huge space, trembling like a newborn calf. Coran said the tremors were a side effect of the nerve regeneration, a byproduct of how deep the cyropod had needed to work into the layers of his tissue. It was supposed to wear off in time, though the crease in Coran's forehead hadn't exactly been comforting. ' _Think about it later_ ,' Lance coached himself, stepping farther into the room.

He passed the place where he'd fallen. There was nothing to mark the spot anymore, but a shiver went through him all the same. He could remember it, faintly. The impact at least. After that, there had been a splintering moment of pain, then nothing. Judging from haunted expression on Hunk's face, it was probably for the best. At least Hunk hadn't been the one to find him. No, that was poor Keith, which was almost as bad. At least Hunk would clutch him and emote all over the place until it was out of his system. Keith… Well, Keith had glared at Lance from the moment he got out of the cryopod, which might have been offensive if it weren't, you know, _Keith_.

' _Why do I always have to be the one to fix everything_?' he wondered, but not with real annoyance. He was flying around space with two aliens, two introverted nerds, and a socially awkward penguin. Of course he had to initiate everything. That was the reason he was here, even though he'd barely had time to grow used to the new, fleshy-pink skin on his hands and thighs.

"Anybody home?" he said into the void.

Red wasn't in her usual spot. Instead, he found her tucked into the farthest corner, and his eyebrows rose into his hairline. He'd never seen the lions curl up like that. Pity shot through him, despite everything. He'd never been able to figure what the lions were, whether animal or robot or something unlike either of those. What he did know is that they were alien – and not alien like Coran and Allura, whose emotional lives were in many ways much like humans. No, the lions were truly otherworldly. It didn't change what happened, but it did give him perspective.

"Red?"

Yellow eyes burned out of the darkness.

"It's me, Lance," he said, though it was hardly necessary. He rubbed his hands up and down on his arms. "I know. Probably not the one you were hoping to see."

She shifted, movements as liquid as though her muscles were flesh and bone instead of cord and metal. He wouldn't lie. It made his heart hammer to see her approach him like that. She didn't attack, though. Something in him must have known she wouldn't. She stopped just beyond, and he sensed her waiting. Waiting for what?

Lance took a deep breath. "So, Keith is pretty upset."

He might have been crazy, but Lance thought he saw the lion shudder. Could the lions even do that?

"He won't talk to me much, because he's managed to make this all his fault. Plus he's angry with you, so, of course, he's miserable. I think it would help if you and I, I dunno, talked or something?" It sounded stupid, really stupid, when he came right out with it. What exactly did one say to a giant robot lion who might have maimed or even killed you? Another tremor went through him, and his knees knocked. He really ought to sit down.

The Red Lion moved. She lowered her face, putting them at eye level. A soft sound came from her, the quietest sound Lance had ever heard her make. He hesitated. Then, tentatively, he touched her cool nose. The connection snapped instantly into place. It wasn't the first time, but somehow it was entirely new. Instead of an intense heat that scorched the edges of him, Lance found himself in a mental space that smelled like cedar. Cool green flames tickled him like driftwood on the beach, and he couldn't help the little gasp that came out of his mouth.

Red spoke.

It was a song of sorry's. It was a confession about the frustration still knotting her inner parts. She wailed it all straight into his heart, and Lance listened, never removing his hand. He listened to everything, and when she got to the image of him on the ground and he mentally looked away, he felt her remorse. In the end, Lance took a deep breath. Smiled a wan, half-formed smile. "I understand."

Red roared. It filled the whole space and no doubt had his friends dashing from wherever it was they were. He hadn't exactly told them he was coming here. No doubt they wouldn't have let him, at least not by himself, but he and Red needed to be alone. He let the concussion of sound roll over him, and when it was over, Red sank down onto her belly, her head lolling. She was a picture of wretchedness.

Lance patted her huge face. "It's okay, girl. I forgive you. Let's start again," he suggested, even as what sounded like a herd of cattle headed in their direction. Clearly their moment was about to be cut short. "What do you say?"

The hanger door burst open, and Keith sprinted through. When he saw Lance standing quietly beside the Red Lion, his eyes narrowed. " _Lance._ "

"Hee hee," Lance said, scratching the back of his neck. "Um, hey, Keith. What's up?"

"What are you doing here?"

Lance looked at Red, who seemed to be regarding him. Their situation hadn't really changed, but he thought perhaps they had. And to be honest? He was relieved. Solve the problem between him and Red. That had been his goal before all this happened, hadn't it? So he'd had to crack his head open to do it. What was a little cranial trauma between friends? The Red Lion returned to her proud, tall stance. Lance stood beneath her, a hopeful smile dancing around his lips. Was this the real beginning of the new Red Paladin? He gave Keith a toothy grin. "We're mending," he said. "But I think we're good for now."

Keith gave his former lion a look of speculation. However, he must have seen something that reassured him, because he heaved a heavy sigh. "Let's go reassure the others. I passed Hunk on the way, and he was so tangled up in whatever wiring he was working on that I think he might strangle."

Lance joined Keith. "Let's go save him then."

Just as he passed through the door, Lance threw a look over his shoulder. The Red Lion's eyes were still following him. He winked at her and could have sworn he heard a scoff. She was, after all, Keith's lion.

* * *

Author's Note: Okay, so I actually prefer the lion swap interpretation where Red relishes having temporary custody of Lance. This was just a 'what if' scenario!


	7. Seaside Beach Friends

Author's Note: This went up as a one-shot a few days ago, but upon thinking about it, I decided it really is too short and self-indulgent to stand alone. Better to put it here. Sorry if you end up seeing it twice!

 **Seaside Beach Friends**  
Summary: Hunk is uncomfortable because his t-shirt keeps riding up on his tummy, but then he meets Lance and they become Seaside Beach Friends.

* * *

 _"To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world."_

\- Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

* * *

Hunk was wearing a pair of nylon swim trunks and a bright yellow t-shirt. The swim trunks were new, purchased only the night before when, in a flurry of last-minute preparations, it became apparent that his older ones had gotten lost in the move. "Maybe I should just stay here with you," Hunk suggested. His voice verged on hopeful, but, no – his mom grabbed the car keys, lips set in a grim line.

"We planned the house closing around getting you here in time for camp," she said, "and I'm not letting something like an extra trip to the store keep you from going."

So they purchased the swim trunks, and now here Hunk was, standing in front of the registration desk at the neighborhood elementary school, wearing a yellow shirt emblazoned with the words SEASIDE BEACH FRIENDS. He usually liked the color yellow. It reminded him of happy things. Not today, though, because when they got to the check-in table, the teacher looked at Hunk, raised her eyebrows, and said, "I'll see what I can do."

In the end, the shirt they handed him barely fit. Hunk stood there, stiff and replete with misery in his too-tight shirt while his mom kissed his check and rubbed it in with her thumb. "Try to have fun, okay?"

He was ushered onto the playground to wait for registration to end. There, a mob of kids was swinging from the monkey bars, going down the slide, and pushing themselves on the swing. Hunk stayed on the four-square court by himself. One of the teachers gave him a popsicle. It was grape, sticky-sweet and unappealing, but Hunk hardly registered the taste. He was watching this wiry kid fly across the jungle gym when someone shoved him between the shoulder blades, knocking the popsicle stick out of his hand. It skittered on the ground, and Hunk turned around to find a boy his own age wearing sunglasses. "You're new."

Hunk looked around, half-expecting to find some other kid. "I'm Hunk."

The other boy dropped his glasses onto his chest while he gave Hunk a once-over. "More like 'chunk'."

A knot formed instantly in Hunk's throat. He knew he was chubby. Sometimes kids reminded him, and sometimes it was well-meaning adults who didn't have shirts in his size. On another day, he might have been able to brush it off, but today, standing in the strange playground, it was too much. The taste of the popsicle flipped over, turning nasty in his mouth. He tugged hopelessly at the hem of his t-shirt.

"Well, aren't you going to say anything?" The mean boy took a step toward him, and Hunk stumbled backward. His sandal hit the edge of the four-square court, which made him feel trapped. Bright sunshine shone like a spotlight on his head; he felt like he was burning up. There was a sharp jab in his stomach. "Hey, talk to me, fatso!"

That was the final straw. The stress and anxiety of that dreadful morning came rushing in all at once, and Hunk's stomach gave up its contents. It came out in a stream of puke, which he belched onto the concrete along with a mouthful of saliva.

The boy jumped back, safely out of the splash zone, but soon he recovered enough to say, "Ew, gross! Guys! The new kid just threw up."

This tantalizing description summoned several other kids who came running to the four-square court. The puddle of vomit was spreading just beyond Hunk's toes. The smell made Hunk want to throw up again, but his chest was so tight he was scared that he might choke.

"Look at it. It's purple. Nasty!"

"Probably 'cause he ate so much," said a girl, and a few others made noises like a pig. "Popsicle eater! Popsicle eater!"

Hunk had always been an anxious kid. When he was stressed, all kinds of bad habits came out. Like throwing up, which happened a lot, and chewing on his nails. And one more thing which made his mom so upset she'd taken him to the pediatrician when he first started doing it. Without thinking, Hunk's hands gravitated to his face.

"Is he picking his eyelashes out? What's wrong with you, anyway?"

At this point, their voices were a fuzzy background noise, painful to Hunk's ears but otherwise mashed and indecipherable. He could feel the tears gathering at the edge of the lashes he had pinched between his fingers, and the fact that he was on the verge of gagging was about the only thing that held him back from sobbing. He was hovering on the edge of a full breakdown when a voice sang out: "Seconds on popsicles! If you want 'em, come and get 'em!"

Every head on the playground turned. One dropped a jump rope and ran, and soon all activities were abandoned. Soon only the boy with the sunglasses remained, but they weren't alone for long. An unknown kid hopped the wooden barrier holding the mulch in place. He was darker-skinned than the other boys, though not as dark as Hunk, and he had a look on his face like Hunk's cat after she'd knocked all of his belongings off the bedside table. In other words, satisfied.

He shoved the sleeves of his t-shirt up to his shoulders and asked innocently, "Don't you want an extra popsicle, Liam?"

The mean boy – Liam, apparently – wrinkled his nose. "You aren't going to fool me, Lance McClain! Besides, didn't you know? Chubby here _ate_ all the popsicles. He ate so many he puked."

Maybe, on a different day, Hunk could have kept the wounded noise inside, but not today. It welled up in his throat, thick and tight, bursting out of him like a soup bubble. He hid his face into his hands, not wanting to be seen, not wanting to be ganged up on –

"Anyone would be sick after seeing your face, Liam. In fact, I think I'm going to hurl right now." Lance made a realistic gagging sound.

Liam managed to look both mad and embarrassed at the same time. "Nobody asked you to come over here, _Lance_."

The new boy shoved Liam's jabbing finger away. "Well, nobody asked you to pick on my friend."

Hunk's eyes snapped up, surprised by the label so suddenly bestowed upon him by this boy he hadn't even met. For the second time, he felt the urge to look around and see if there was another kid lurking in the bushes, but he was the only one there. Him and Lance.

Liam got in Lance's space. "Don't make me laugh. That new kid's not your friend. You don't _have_ any friends, stupidhead."

Lance pantomimed falling tears. "Boo hoo. Mean ol' Liam called me a name and hurt my feelings. I'm going to write about it in my diary!" He dropped the act. "Geeze, what's your problem? My sister says bullies are all insecure, diaper-wearing babies. Are you a diaper-wearing baby, Liam?"

Something had escalated in the last few minutes; Hunk could feel it. Lance's taunt felt real, and something real simmered back in Liam, something his round cheeks and crooked teeth couldn't hide. Hunk had a vision of what he might be someday, this mean kid. Someone who did more than shove and call people 'stupidhead', that's for sure. Today, though, he settled for answering in a voice that bubbled with anger. "Someday, somebody is going to get tired of your big mouth."

The boy called Lance rotated his shoulders. "Yeah, yeah. Why don't you go fall off the swings or something?" That was when Liam tackled Lance. They fell down on the pavement, screeching and hollering, and Hunk covered his face again, hoping the whole situation would go away. He heard shouting, the thud of some body part hitting the ground, cursing, slapping, and finally the sound of retreating feet. Then it got quiet. Someone nudged Hunk. "Are you alright?"

Hunk dared open his eyes. Lance was there, scrapes on his cheeks and knees, and – absurdly – a sandal in his hand. They were alone. "I'm okay. Are you hurt?"

Lance dropped the sandal back on the ground. "No way. My sister Veronica taught me how to deal with jerks. You smack 'em until they squeal and then you hock a big wad of spit –" He gathered some in his checks, as though to demonstrate.

Hunk's stomach gave a dramatic twist. "Don't!"

"Sorry." Lance swallowed, rubbing away saliva from his chin with the back of his hand. "He deserved it, though. Liam's always picking on everybody. My brother says some people just come out chewing on their mom's tits." He face turned red as he said the word and his voice took on a confidential note. "Luis swears a lot, but if Mama heard I copied, she'd be mad. You won't tell, will you?"

Hunk was positive his own mother would give him a spanking for using that word, but there was something nice about being trusted with a secret. Friends did that, right? He tried not to panic when a hopeful little spark went off in his stomach. Instead, he said shyly, "I won't tell."

Lance stuck out his hand. "I'm Lance."

Shaking hands felt grown-up, official. Hunk gripped tight like his uncle taught him. "I'm Hunk. I just moved here."

"My family moved here, too," Lance told him. "But we've been here for ages, now. Have you been to the beach yet?"

"No," Hunk admitted. That had, in fact, been one of the reasons his mom signed him up. Back home, he'd spent hours seaside, and he'd cried almost as bitterly about leaving it as he had his grandparents and cousins.

"Well, don't worry. We get to spend all day there for the rest of the summer! _If_ the teachers ever finish sign-ups." It was at that moment the lead teacher gave a shout, and kids started queueing up. Lance asked, "Does your tummy still hurt? They'll call your mom if you feel sick."

Hunk felt a cramp of indecision. A few moments ago, all he wanted was for his mom to come get him; forget the stupid beach. But calling his mom would mean leaving Lance, and he wasn't sure he wanted that. He made a decision. "I feel better now."

"Great! Let's go get in line." Lance started off at a run, but when Hunk hesitated, he paused. "Hunk?"

Hunk wanted to go. He'd _decided_ to go, but when he looked at the other kids, hollering and pushing and laughing…

A shadow eclipsed his view of the crowd, and a hand was thrust in his face. Lance wiggled his fingers. "If you want, you can hold my hand."

Doubt evaporated. Hunk accepted Lance's offer, and that was how they arrived in line. A teacher gave them an approving look, though it sharpened when she saw Lance's scrapes. For a moment, Hunk was sure she was going to yell, but in the end she just asked if he needed a Band-Aid.

"You got any space ones?" Lance asked.

They didn't have space ones, but there were plenty of other choices. Ten minutes later they were marching down the sidewalk with the rest of the group, Lance sporting not one, but two Band-Aids. He poked the one on his puffed-out cheek. "It's not fair. They always gots Spiderman but never Hawkeye. I like that he shoots arrows."

Hunk nodded sympathetically. His own favorite superhero was Ironman, who was always working on neat gadgets. He liked to imagine what it would be like to build his own flying suit. He'd even drawn some blueprints before his mom caught him and told him that under no circumstances was he to take apart the toaster again. He'd explored her terms – "Even if aliens come?" – but they were surprisingly firm: "Even with aliens. You'll have to leave saving the world to the grown-ups for now."

It was a shame suit-building would have to wait, but Hunk didn't really mind letting the grown-ups save the world. That seemed like a really big job. Plus, he was scared of flying.

The school was located only a few blocks from the local beachfront, so it wasn't a long walk. A breeze kicked up, and a familiar smell wafted to Hunk's nose. As they crested the top of a hill, he was able to see the horizon, grey-blue on blue. He took in the beach with its sand and swirly foam, and for a second he was wasn't far from home in a new place where he didn't even know his address anymore. There were terns, just like Samoa, and they were calling to each other. While he watched, another bird, a seagull, dove down and snatched a chip bag. A teenager threw a rock at it, but missed.

Lance tugged on his hand. "It's pretty, right?"

Hunk nodded, awed. "Pretty."

The teachers were drawing everyone in. "Listen up, campers. You know the rules. Everybody stays together – no wandering off where a grown-up can't see you. You can play in the sand or go in the water with Miss Cindy, but there will be no shoving anyone underwater. That's not nice. Do you understand?"

A chorus of voices answered in the affirmative, and she pulled open the wooden gate, leading them onto the beach. The sand was hot against Hunk's toes. The sinking feeling as the soft ground yielded made him smile. A lot of the kids had already run off, but Lance stayed with Hunk. "Do you want to swim?"

Hunk was a little hesitant around water. He wasn't a strong swimmer yet, but he could pick up shells or let the water hiss over him. "Okay."

The two of them played for what felt like hours, first in the water and then in the sand. The more they got to know each other, the more Hunk liked Lance. He was daring and funny. He didn't tease Hunk when he obsessed over their sandcastle construction and even stole the shoelaces Hunk needed from a teacher's sneakers. _That_ escapade made Hunk's heart thump. He would never have done it on his own, but Lance just slapped his back. "Don't worry. If we get caught, we'll just tell 'em what we're making. They won't care. It's just more fun to sneak!"

There was a certain logic to this, and Hunk found he kind of relished the adventure of it – once it was already done, at least – and it _was_ rewarding to see his drawbridge working, especially when Lance exclaimed, "Wow! You're a genius, Hunk!"

Hunk was having a really good time. The only problem was his stupid t-shirt. Eventually, Lance noticed and asked, "Why do you keep doing that?"

Hunk yanked on the fabric with both hands. It stretched, but he knew it would just pull up again if he let go. "It's too small."

Lance scratched the back of his head. It was matted where he'd been lying on his back, and grains of sand went flying everywhere. "Why don't you just take it off, then?"

A wave of insecurity gripped Hunk. He didn't like going without his shirt, even at the pool, but that was stupid. What kind of sissy was scared to take their shirt of? So he made up a different reason. "I'll get sunburned." He felt bad straight away because Hunk never, ever burned, not even back on the island and he spent practically all his time in the sun. It was an excuse, and his mom said excuses were lying.

Lance was unimpressed. "I got suntan lotion in my bag. Here, I'll take mine off, too." Lance stripped off his own shirt and flung it into the sand. Then he propped his knuckles on skinny hips, which were barely holding up his swim shorts. Hunk could count all his ribs. "Ta da!"

A giggle erupted before Hunk could stop himself. He shielded his face. "Ugh. My eyes!"

"You're just jealous," Lance said and struck a body-builder pose. "Well, dude? Are you going to let me hog all the ladies' attention by myself?"

Ladies? Gross. Hunk dithered, twisting his shirt in his hands.

"Come on, Hunk. Please?" Lance gave him a pleading look, and Hunk felt himself weakening. One arm at a time, he extracted himself from the yellow SEASIDE BEACH FRIENDS shirt and laid it on the sand. He stared at it, scrunched up and lifeless. He scratched his belly. It felt better. Lance, who had been digging around in his bag, came up with bottle. "Found the lotion. It's too bad we don't have any snacks, though. I'm getting hungry."

Hunk completely agreed. He looked up at the sun, still high the sky, and wondered what time it was. "Maybe we could ask?"

"I've got a better idea! Let's go to my house. It's just down the street, and we can get some snacks."

"I dunno." Hunk looked over his shoulder where the teachers had set up an umbrella. One of them was sitting in the shade, keeping an eye on the proceedings, while a few others were out with the kids. None of them seemed to be looking at Hunk and Lance. "I don't think they'll say yes."

"Let's not ask, then," Lance said. He pointed toward the wooden fence that divided the beach from the road. If Hunk squinted, he could just see roofs over the rise. "Look, it's really close. Nobody will even notice we're gone!"

Hunk was getting really hot and hungry. If they went to Lance's house, they could sit in the shade for awhile and have something to eat. Plus, if Hunk knew were Lance's house was, maybe they could play there together _after_ camp was over. With one last look toward the umbrella, Hunk followed Lance to the fence.

Lance's house was just a few minutes down the road, up a dirt driveway into a big yard with a shed and a house with a porch around it. Chickens fluttered around them as Lance marched confidently to the back of the house and swung the screen door open. "Mama! I'm home!" he shouted. After a moment of listening, he grinned at Hunk. "The coast is clear."

"Why do you go to the beach club if you live right here?"

"My parents are _busy._ " Lance said. "Plus mama thinks it will keep me out of trouble."

Lance led them into the kitchen, which reminded Hunk a lot of his family's back in Samoa. There was a sink and a wooden cutting board and several cast iron pots hanging on the wall. An old refrigerator hummed in the back, which Lance dragged an empty wooden carton in front of it. Standing on the carton, Lance was just tall enough to reach the freezer door, which he swung open so violently he almost smacked himself in the forehead.

"Two left!" he exalted, handing Hunk a pair of plastic cups. They were filled with something white. Lance squished it unto the whole frozen treat came free. He shoved it in his mouth. "Mm."

Hunk mimicked him. "Mm!" It was creamy and sweet and tasted like cinnamon.

"It's from Sammi, our milk cow. Mama whisks it." Lance demonstrated the churning motion. "It's good, right? A lot nicer than those nasty popsicles."

Hunk had to agree. These were _much_ better. Snacks demolished, Lance guided him toward a narrow staircase beyond the kitchen. Upstairs was a long, narrow hallway with a bathroom and two bedrooms, plus a pull-down staircase that led into a dark square in the ceiling. Lance pointed. "That's where Veronica sleeps. Grandma and Papi sleep there. And this is my room!"

The room Hunk was lead into was packed with personal belongings. There was a cot squished into a corner, a bureau with clothes hanging out of every drawer, a tiny desk, and – against the back wall – a set of bunk beds with a blanket hanging down over the bottom. Lance jumped inside.

"I sleep on the bottom! You coming, Hunk?"

Hunk was distracted by the desk. It had several textbooks propped on a cinderblock. Hunk read the spines with interest. Algebra. Geometry. Pre-Calc. "Whose are these?"

Lance rolled out of bed. "Those? Those are Marco's."

"Do you think he'd be mad if I looked at one?"

"Those stinky math books?" Lance looked at him like he was crazy, and Hunk's shoulders shrank. He should have expected that kind of reaction, but after the shoelaces… Before he could finish his thought, Lance climbed up on the desk chair and grabbed one of the books, which he thrust in Hunk's arms. "Here. Marco won't mind."

With this, he wiggled back into the bottom bunk, and this time, holding the textbook against his chest, Hunk followed. It was dim under the bed on account of the hanging blanket, but Hunk could still see the pages of the math book. He flipped through them reverently, reading the diagrams and their explanations with greedy eyes. His auntie used to give him workbooks to play with, but he usually finished them the same hour he got them, and none had anything as interesting as this.

Lance, laying on his stomach with his chin propped in his hands, said, "You really are some kind of genius, aren't you?"

Hunk jerked up from his reverie. He'd heard the word thrown around, of course, but his mom didn't like it. 'Gifted' was what she called him, which was sometimes good and sometimes bad. It was good when you fixed the washing machine just by looking and seeing what was loose. It was bad when you took grandma's antique clock apart or poured water in the gas tank of the car to see what would happen.

"I'm good at numbers," he decided. "And building things. Like the sandcastle."

"That sandcastle was so neat!" Lance enthused, making noises to simulate the drawbridge and the sounds of cannons going off, which they had made from little shells and bits of rock. Those parts were just make-believe, of course, but it had still been fun. Lance sighed. "I wish I was smart."

Hunk thought Lance _was_ smart. He'd been able to distract the kids on the playground with the story about the fake popsicles, and he knew what to do to make bullies go away, and even more than that, Lance was _nice_ , really nice, and that was a lot better than being smart, wasn't it? Hunk decided he had to say something. "I like you the way you are, Lance."

Lance brightened. "Really? _Really,_ really?" When he got an affirmative answer, he practically wiggled with happiness. "This is the best day ever. We're gonna be best friends, Hunk. Marco and Bo are best friends, and Robin and Luis are best friends. _We_ can be best friends, too. And best friends tell each other stuff."

"Like what?" Hunk wondered, even though his heart was thudding in his chest, thrilled by the prospect of having not just a friend but a _best friend_.

Lance dug under the pillow and came up with what looked like a giant grey sweater. It was obviously a hand-me-down, but Lance seemed enormously proud of it. He hooked his thumbs in the material to show off the symbol emblazoned on the front. NASA.

"It's the old space program, you know?" Lance said. "I want to go to space one day. That's my thing. When I'm big, I'm gonna enroll in the Galaxy Garrison."

The Galaxy Garrison. Hunk had seen shows about it on television. They explored space and went to places far away. Once, he and his grandad had watched a whole documentary about the distant planets where they went to learn new things. It had been exciting…and a little scary. "The Galaxy Garrison," he muttered.

"Yeah!" Lance got onto his knees and pulled the blanket fully down over the opening between the bunks. It cast them in near darkness, but before Hunk had a chance to get nervous, there was a _click_ and light filled the space again. But not sunlight. It came from a flashlight in Lance's hand, but unlike a normal flashlight, this one had a cap over the end. The cap was filled with holes, and that was what the light shone through. Hunk looked up and his mouth fell open.

It wasn't _holes_ – it was stars.

Lance stared, just as mesmerized as he was. "I want to see them for real," he murmured. "I want to fly there."

Hunk looked at his new friend, who had just shared a big dream with him. His heart felt really warm, and he wanted more than anything to give Lance a hug. Friends gave hugs, right? He decided to risk it, and held out his arms. Lance caught his look and propped the flashlight on the pillow. They embraced in the light of the stars.

When he pulled back, Hunk felt a sense of calm he didn't usually feel. Sitting back on his heels, he stared at the pin-point lights. "They really are pretty."

"We could go see them together," Lance suggested. He dived back under his pillow again, which seemed to be the place where all his treasures were stored. When he came up this time, it was with a crumpled poster that looked like it had been torn off of a wall, maybe at a grocery store where people were allowed to pin up wanted ads and pictures of lost cats. This one was a Galaxy Garrison poster. A line of cadets were saluting on the front, and a rocket ship blasted off into a background dotted with swirling smoke. Lance smoothed it with his hand. "It says, 'Join Us Today!' Luis read it to me. He says I'm dumb, because the Galaxy Garrison wants geniuses, not stupid boys from Cuba. But you're a genius, Hunk! And I'm studying really hard. I can say all my letters and count to a hundred and even read some of Veronica's books. Well, mostly I 'memorized the books, but that's almost reading. Soon I'll be able to do good math, like you and Marco, and I know I'll be a good flier. I just know it."

Hunk looked at his new friend, fully convinced that Lance could do anything. "Space," he said, in both humility and wonderment.

"Space," Lance agreed.

* * *

They had made their way down to the kitchen when the back door slammed. Lance froze, his eyes very big, and then a masculine voice called out, "Anybody home?"

Lance gave Hunk a thumbs up. "That's just Marco. Marco! Come meet my friend Hunk!"

From the back of the house, a teenage boy came in. He was easily as big as a grown-up with brown hair like Lance and a sleeveless shirt that showed a tattoo on his bicep. Hunk gaped. This was the brother who wouldn't mind people borrowing his math books? Marco knuckled his brother's scalp, drawing a protest from Lance. "You're home early, Lancito. Get in trouble again?"

"I just wanted to show Hunk my room! He's really cool and smart, Marco. We built a sandcastle, and Hunk made this neat drawbridge that really worked! We're going to go to space together."

"Space, huh?" Marco's eyes lit on Hunk, who had just enough time to squeak before the older boy swung him up in his arms. Hunk's eyes flew wide. He hadn't been lifted so easily since he was a toddler; even his mom had a hard time hefting him these days. However, this boy did it with barely a grunt of strain. "Well, hello there, gordito!"

Hunk didn't know much Spanish, but some things were too common to misunderstand. In an instant, all the calm he felt collapsed into a brittle pile. His hands went to his lashes, and his eyes flushed with tears.

Alarmed, Marco asked, "Hey, what's wrong?"

Lance danced foot to foot, a troubled line down his forehead. "They were picking on him today, Marco. They called him fat. He doesn't like it."

With a sound of understanding, Marco sat Hunk on the countertop. "Listen to me, kiddo. First off, 'gordo' is a common Latino nickname for friends and family, not an insult. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. Do you believe me?"

Hunk looked to Lance, who was quick to reassure him. "It's true, Hunk. It's not a mean name. Marco wouldn't do that."

Wanting it to be true but only partially convinced, Hunk sniffed. He had snot on his face, and that made him ashamed. He tried to rub it away, but before he could far, Marco handed him a handkerchief. It was wadded up and not very clean, but Hunk took it anyway. "Thank you."

"Those kids at school gave you a hard time today, eh?"

Maybe it was the sympathy in Marco's eyes, or maybe it was how much he looked like Lance, but something inside Hunk broke and he started blubbering. "They-they said I stealed the popsicles, and then I threw up and they made oinking noises." Tears spilled over his cheeks, and he hiccupped his next few words. "It was scary."

And he was scared, but not just of Liam and he other kids on the playground. He was scared of new foods and a new language and a new house. It was too much. He thought of the comforting weight of the math book in his arms. What if it was too scary, going to school? Maybe it would be better if he stayed in the apartment where he could hide behind the aloe plants and have plenty of space to learn by himself.

Marco crossed his arms, looking a bit like Lance when Liam was calling names. "Maybe I'll have to come to school and give those kids a talking to."

Hunk blinked. Lance's brother didn't even know him. Why would he care?

"We big fellas have to stick together in a world of skinny guys like Lance here," Marco said, nudging Hunk gently in the ribs. His grin was infectious, and Hunk found himself reciprocating.

"Hey!" Lance protested, giving his brother a half-hearted shove. "You don't have to come. It was mostly just Liam, and I already taught him a lesson."

Marco cut his brother a look. "You did, did you?"

Lance kicked at the kitchen tiles. "Aw, I didn't hurt him, Marco."

"He was brave," Hunk whispered.

Marco's look softened, and he grabbed Lance around the neck. "Well, what can I say. My little brother might not have much common sense, but none of us ever claimed he was short on guts. For now, though, I think we'd better get you back to the beach. I have a feeling Lance led you astray, Hunk, and if that's the case, you're bound to have been missed by now."

Lance started to look nervous. "Am I in trouble?"

"We'll talk about it later," Marco promised.

That made Lance wilt, and Hunk put in, "It wasn't his fault. I wanted to come."

"Be that as it may," Marco said, "Lance knows better than to run off when he's in someone else's care. It's been discussed several times. I only hope that when you apologize, Lance, you make it good. Then maybe Hunk's mom will still let him come over for fireworks on Friday."

Lance, who'd been looking very sorry, transformed in an instant. He danced around the kitchen. "Really?"

Marco gave his brother a shove toward the door. "Maybe. We'll have to see how well you grovel."

* * *

As it turned out, the two boys had, in fact, sent everyone into full panic mood. Both of their moms had been called, and they and the teachers were rushing around, calling their names when Marco walked onto the beach with a boy in each arm. "Mama!" he called in his big voice, and a woman who could only have been Lance's mother stopped mid-dash and heaved a heavy sigh.

"Thank goodness," she breathed, and then her voice dropped. " _Lance."_

Lance gulped, gave a tiny wave. "Hi, Mama."

After that, Hunk spent some time crushed to his mother's chest while she alternately kissed and scolded him. Eventually, the tide of emotion died down enough for explanations to made. As Marco had predicted, Hunk's mom was not happy. Of course, Lance probably could've been a hardened kidnapper and his mom still would have forgiven him after Hunk told her about Liam. But Lance wasn't a kidnapper. He was a skinny five-year-old whose lip trembled as he stammered, "I'm really, really, really sorry, Miss Garrett." Then he buried his face in his brother's thigh.

Hunk's mom sighed and got down on one knee. "Face around here, young man," she said. And when she had drawn Lance close, "Now listen. You know what you did was wrong. You scared me. My little boy was missing, and I didn't know where he was. For that, there will have to be consequences. That said, it also sounds like you were good to my boy today. Now, I won't ask you to stay out of trouble completely; I can tell from the look on your face that's hardly possible. But as long as you _promise_ not to go running off again, I think I can see my way into letting you and Hunk play together."

Lance's eyes were huge. "Really?"

Hunk tugged on her arm. "Really?"

She looked at them with fondness, gave both boys a little squeeze. "Really," she said.

Hunk was so thrilled he swallowed his friend in another hug, feeling warm all over when Lance squeezed back. He could hardly remember that morning: watching is mom drive away, the noisy playground, the puddle of vomit. Eclipsing those memories were others. Sandcastles made with stolen shoelaces. Abandoned t-shirts that lost their power to make him feel vulnerable. Milk popsicles. Flashlights made of stars. And hugs. Best friend hugs.

The sun was going down behind the ocean, setting it on fire. Their moms were talking, maybe striking up a friendship of their own, but Hunk wasn't paying attention. He was sitting on the fence, kick his feet back and forth. "I'm glad I threw up," he said.

Lance scrunched his nose. "What?"

"Really I am," Hunk told him. "'Cause you came and helped me, and not we get to be friends."

"Aw, Hunk. You didn't need to throw up for that."

Maybe, but Hunk squeezed Lance's hand tighter in the light of the falling sun.

* * *

" _People have forgotten this truth," the fox said. "But you mustn't forget it. You become responsible forever for what you've tamed. You're responsible for your rose."_

\- Antoine de Saint-Exupéry


End file.
